


This is No Game

by Robin4



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Alternate Universe - No Curse, F/F, F/M, Forced Prostitution, M/M, Multi, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Torture, Victors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:23:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 43,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3345149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin4/pseuds/Robin4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle French volunteers to save her best friend from the 71st Hunger Games, and finds herself dragged into a terrifying world were even the victors are not winners.  Her only companion is District Twelve’s pariah, the bitter and damaged Rumple Gold, who tries desperately to save her from the hell that comes after winning the Games.  </p><p>A very dark story featuring the Once characters in the Hunger Games universe.</p><p>Winner of Best Book AU in the 2016 TEAs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Be warned: a very dark fic presented in snapshot format. Many thanks to deathmallow for the use of her Office of Victor Affairs other various concepts regarding victor dynamics.
> 
> Featuring the following characterizations:  
>  Rumple Gold as Haymitch Abernathy  
>  Belle French as Katniss Everdeen (with a splash of Peeta Melark)  
>  Tinker Belle as Effie Trinket  
>  Killian Jones as Finick Odair  
>  Archie Hopper as Cinna  
>  Regina Mills as Plutarch Heavensbee  
>  The Blue Fairy as President Snow  
>  ...and many others

Belle was never quite sure when she noticed that he only used the cane when someone from the Capitol might be watching, but at some point that realization sunk in.  She remembered seeing him around Twelve from time to time, walking without the cane in his quiet way. He was always angry and often had a drink in his hand, but his eyes were always sharp and his words more sarcastic and clever than not.  Sometimes, even as a teen, she wondered if the drunkenness might be part of an act, but she really didn’t have any desire to dwell on it.  District Twelve’s lone resident victor (as if anyone could forget that there was another victor, and it was this man’s son, and _he_ lived the high life of luxury in the Capitol) didn’t associate too much with anyone.  He came into town to buy food and supplies, and an awful lot of that horrible white liquor that was sold in the Hob, but that was about all anyone saw of Gold.  Belle watched him from time to time, but it was only out of curiosity.

When she wound up in the Games, she found herself wishing that she’d watched him a lot more.  Unlike Gaston, the mass of muscles and short-sightedness that he was, she realized that Gold actually _knew_ how this worked, and that there was a sharp mind hiding behind that languid sarcasm.  There was anger, too, and something broken, but she would only figure that out later.

* * *

 

When the morning of her final Reaping dawned, the last thing Belle French ever expected to do was volunteer.  Robin had promised to have others take care of the hunting that day—he was ten years older than her and way past having to worry about being thrown into the Games.  Robin Loxley was the unofficial lead hunter in Twelve; he taught his band of “Merry Men” (and women) to hunt in the woods beyond the fence line.  All in all, there were about fifteen people who hunted to put food on various tables within the district, and Belle had been one of those ever since her mother died when she was fourteen.  Her father had a mild case of blacklung and his long shifts in the mine were doing him no favors, and Belle’s younger brother Alan was just twelve, too young to do anything other than survive.  Robin, Belle’s teacher and friend, had been hunting practically since he could walk, and although he was technically a blast captain in the mines, he somehow managed to find time to hunt as well.

Belle _had_ intended to go hunting that morning, anyway, right up until the time Webster dropped by and mentioned that Babette was sick.  Webster was one of Alan’s best friends, just as Babette was Belle’s, and Belle rushed over to the ramshackle house next door to the French family’s own home.  There she found her best friend coughing up a storm as Babette tried to wave off her younger brother’s worries.  Technically, Babette and Webster should have been in the group home; their parents were both dead, and Babette wasn’t yet eighteen.  But Babette had somehow talked the head of the housing committee into letting them stay, promising all kinds of things (and sleeping with the old sleaze ball to make it stick).  They never would have survived without both Thompsons taking tesserae and without Belle’s hunting, even with Babette taking in mending for everyone every chance she got.  The Thompsons were undoubtedly some of the worst off in the entire Seam, and Belle did her best to help her friends.

“You look terrible,” she said to Babette, who stopped coughing and started sneezing.

“It’s just a bug going around. I think I caught it from the Darlings,” her friend wheezed.

“Babs was looking after their kids last week,” Webster explained as Belle helped Babette to her feet.  Mr. Darling was the town tailor, well enough off to pay someone a pittance to care for his children.  Hearing that, however, made Belle’s heart sink.  The eldest, Wendy, was obviously old enough to care for her siblings—and usually did—and if Wendy was sick enough that Mr. Darling brought in Babette, the sickness had to be really bad.

“You need to be more careful,” she told Babette quietly, shooing Webster out and helping her friend take a sponge bath.  On any other day, being this sick would even get Babette out of school, but not on Reaping Day.  Today, Babette had to look her best no matter how awful she felt, so Belle got her dressed and ready, and then made sure Webster was presentable as well. Fortunately, Alan showed up while she was doing so, wearing a baggy old dress shirt that used to belong to their father and a set of darned trousers that had once been Robin’s.  He looked ridiculously undersized and weak in the outfit, but Belle smiled and told her brother that he looked wonderful, anyway.

After all, it wasn’t Alan’s fault that the Frenches never had enough money to buy new clothing.  None of the Seam kids ever looked better than halfway presentable.  Belle was wearing an old blue dress of her mother’s, with a hem so  long that she had to pick it up to keep the white trim from dragging on the ground.  Besides, today was Alan’s first Reaping, and Belle wasn’t going to make him nervous.

“Ready?” she asked the other three, and they headed towards the square together. 

It was a walk that never took long enough; the growing crowd of children couldn’t even lollygag, not with Peacekeepers lining the streets and silently goading them into walking faster.   Belle and Babette stuck together—with the other girl still coughing and sometimes leaning on Belle for balance—until they had to split up and get into their separate lines.  Belle had turned eighteen a month earlier, but Babette wouldn’t turn eighteen for another nine days, which meant they could not stand together.  Still, the seventeen and eighteen year old girls were always positioned next to one another, which meant Belle hung back and went to the rear of her designated area while Babette headed to the front of hers.  They’d always done that as soon as the finger prick confirmed their identities, and today was no different.

 _It’s my last Reaping,_ Belle told herself, trying to stay calm during the opening video about the uprising, the Dark Days, and the origins of the Hunger Games.  She’d seen the video montage enough to be bored by it; Belle really wished they’d change it every year so that at least she’d have something to focus on.  Of course, she had more slips than ever in the bowl this year—twenty-eight times—but she’d been lucky so far.  Surely she could survive just one more. 

Desperate for distraction, she glanced up at the stage, seeing their district escort, Mirabella Tink, dressed all in glittering green and wearing a bright smile.  Mayor Midas sat not far away from her, looking glum; his youngest daughter had died in the Games last year, so Belle could imagine that the entire ceremony was only a terrible reminder of that.   To his right sat District Twelve’s lone resident victor, Rumple Gold, looking angry in a perfectly tailored black suit that so obviously set him apart from everyone else.  Looking at him made Belle’s eyes narrow; the commentators always called him brilliant during the Games, but she’d never seen any evidence of that here in Twelve.  He was the district pariah for so many reasons, and not all of them were because his son lived in the Capitol and Twelve’s only other victor was dead.

“Ladies first!” Tink announced, interrupting Belle’s thoughts and making her heart hammer into her chest.  There was a lengthy pause, followed by: “Babette Thompson!”

Horrified, Belle turned to face her best friend, who had gone stark white.  But even Babette’s shock couldn’t keep her from another coughing fit, and her fear probably made it worse.  Instinctively, Belle reached across the rope line separating them to catch Babette before she could fall, her mind full of the knowledge that there was _no way_ her friend could survive the arena.  Even under normal circumstances, Babette was one of the kindest and sweetest people Belle knew.  She’d never gone hunting, never even snuck around after dark unless it was to find a Peacekeeper who might pay for her, and she was so sick that she could barely stand.

Purpose crystalized in her mind even as the words left her mouth.

“ _I volunteer_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Belle and Gaston head towards the Capitol, and Belle finds that her district partner really is a meathead. In the meantime, please let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see a bit of the rest of the world, and where our favorite Once characters fit into Panem.

“Well, I didn’t expect _that_ ,” Killian said to Ariel as they rode the train from the Capitol from District Four.  They were watching the Reaping Recap with their tributes, and everything had proceeded just like normal until they hit District Twelve.  Then a— _call her what she is, Killian—_ beautiful girl wearing a faded blue and white dress had volunteered to save her best friend, completely stealing the spotlight from the handsome and muscular boy who had been Reaped right after her.  The boy might have looked like a contender in any other year, but right now, this Belle French looked like the real deal.

“Look at that brave smile,” Ariel said clinically, gesturing at the screen.  “She’ll be hard to beat.  The sponsors are going to love her.”

“But we’ll get the traditional Four sponsors, right?” Sebastian Kai, their eighteen year old male tribute (a volunteer, as usual) asked.

Sebastian was a good friend of Aurora’s, and Kilian had promised his love that he’d do his best to bring him home safely, but he already knew that promise was worth less than the water you could weigh it in.  Sponsors Sebastian would have, but he wasn’t good looking enough to get them the way Killian or Ariel had, and he wasn’t personable enough to win them based on charm alone.  He’d have to kill to get more than the Capitolites who always sponsored Four, unless Killian and Ariel were willing to do something drastic to sway others.  _It won’t be worth it this year.  Not with Gold’s girl.  Gold will be working every possible angle, and she’s got that_ spark _they’re going to love._

“Of course you will,” Killian reassured him, but his attention wasn’t on the red haired boy, who he’d thought would have a good chance until five minutes earlier.  Ariel met his eyes over Pearl Summer’s head, and she gave him a very slight nod.

Killian had been a sponsor for five years; Ariel had been one for four.  They’d won back to back games, and were the pride of their district, and they knew how this drama would work out.  There were some things that were predictable in the Hunger Games, particularly if you studied them the way all kids who trained in Four did.  Belle French was going to be one of the favorites—even if she had no martial skills whatsoever.  Those big blue eyes and the brave little smile would make the Capitol _swoon_ over her, and if anyone knew how uncomfortable having the love of the Capitol could be, it was Killian Jones.

“I hope she doesn’t make it,” he said to Ariel later, long after their own tributes were out of earshot.  “They’ll tear her to pieces if she wins.”

Ariel’s smile was strained; had Ruby not won the year before, Ariel would still have been _the_ hottest female victor on the market.  Mulan from Two had won between her and Ruby, but Mulan was the silent warrior type, not the engaging and sexy type that the Capitol wanted from their female victors.  Ariel was still in demand, although not quite as much as Killian, and she knew exactly what he meant.  Still, her soft answer was compassionate.

“Me, too,” she replied, crossing her arms and shivering, even though the train was warmer than Four was this time of year.

After all, they both knew the truth no one ever told them tributes during training.  _The lucky ones never come home._

* * *

 

“This will be marvelous!” Regina Wainwright grinned, rubbing her hands together while she watched the Recap.  She’d seen it live, of course, but now that Stefan King, the head gamemaker, was being interviewed by Sidney Glass, she had an opportunity to watch it again. 

“Are you _still_ cooing over that Twelve girl, darling?” her mother asked, walking in from the other room.  Her parents had _insisted_ on holding a pre-Games party—as usual—and somehow they’d convinced her to come.  After all, how many families could boast of having the Capitol’s number two gamemaker in the family?  She was the youngest Chief Assistant Gamemaker in history at only twenty, and her mother wouldn’t let anyone forget that.

“Of course I am, Mother.  She’s going to make the Games spectacular,” Regina replied, mindful of the crowd around them.  Looking at her mother’s face, no one would ever guess that Henry Wainwright’s beautiful wife had been born plain Cora Mills in District Nine, the daughter of a miller with no prospects and no hope.  But she’d won the 48th Games and then somehow managed to convince Regina’s father to fall in love with her, resulting in the first ever (and only) Capitol-Victor marriage.  She was the perfect socialite, now, but Regina knew that Cora had never forgotten where she came from, even if she hoped everyone else would.

“Just so long as you make sure that Stefan gives you some of the credit this time,” Cora said, reaching out to smooth Regina’s hair.  “He’s always using your ideas and never telling anyone where they come from.”

“Mother…” Regina sighed, and then glanced at the clock.  “I’m nearly late for lunch with Emma.  Excuse me.”

Fortunately, even Cora wasn’t going to make the famous Emma Swan wait, which meant Regina was able to get away from her mother easily enough.  Emma was her best friend, but as far as Cora was concerned, Emma was simply the heir to the vast Swan fortune, which she’d inherit when her elderly mother died.  Emma had been named Entrepreneur of the Year just last year, and her new company, Capitol Talent, had rocked society in all the best ways.  Emma had a spectacular skill for finding the best and the brightest in the Capitol, and parents paid her millions to place their children in the right fields.  Emma had an instinct that always told her where someone belonged, and she was very seldom wrong.

“Do give Baelfire my regards!” Cora sang after her as Regina darted out of the room.

Of course, Emma was _also_ dating one of the few victors who lived in the Capitol year round, and any woman still breathing (and many of the men) viewed Baelfire Gold as one hell of a catch.  But Emma had caught him and seemed very unwilling to let him go, despite the fact that they’d only been seeing one another for a month and Emma was only eighteen to Baelfire’s twenty-one.  Being seen with the pair would do her reputation no harm, Regina decided, bouncing out of her parents’ home with a smile.  Life was good.

* * *

 

“Well, ‘Charming’, what do you think of our tributes this year?” she asked her mentoring partner on the train, lounging back and pretending to be at home in all this luxury.  She’d had twenty-seven years of practice since her own Games, and she was good at it.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” David Nolan grumbled, flopping down next to her.  He’d been her tribute, too, of course, and was far better company than Tuck.  _Tuck_ had been next to useless as well as boring, having turned to some old-fashioned thing called religion to comfort himself when they lost tribute after tribute.  But then again, District Ten didn’t bring home many victors.  David was only their third.

“Why ever not, darling?” she cooed.  “The Capitol can’t decide if you’re some fairytale Prince Charming or a rough and tough cowboy from the wilds of District Ten.  Surely you wouldn’t rather I call you ‘Cowboy’, would you?”

“Mal!”

Maleficent smiled and sipped the class of champagne she’d poured herself.  Teasing David was so easy, and besides, he needed _someone_ to keep him grounded.  Much like Killian Jones, her young victor would be very much in demand once they reached the Capitol.  This would only be his second year mentoring, and she could tell he was already nervous.

“Drink some champagne,” she advised him serenely, trying not to think on her daughter at home, safe for another year but still with two Reapings left.  “And focus on the children.”

* * *

 

Ruby had been dozing until Kristoff started throwing ice cubes at her.  “Will you _quit_ it?” she growled.

“Nope,” her fellow victor replied cheerfully.  “The kids are done pestering Ingrid and Hans for stories, so it’s time for you and me to earn our lordly salaries again.”

“They don’t pay us for this,” she reminded him, sitting up on the couch she’d been sprawled on.  Kristoff, however, just shrugged.

“Well, we’re alive and grateful for the Capitol’s largess, right?”

Only a victor from One or Two could say that and actually sound like they meant it, and the little robot-like soldiers from Two always flubbed the delivery by being too serious.  Ruby, however, was from the artisan district and had always known exactly what to expect from her new life, so she rose gracefully and smiled back with what everyone would assume was a gracious smile.

“Of course we are.  Let’s get to work.”

Someday, Ruby reflected, someone was going to make the Capitol pay for everything.  But not today, and it probably wouldn’t be her, either.  Instead, she’d be a gracious victor like she had been trained to be, mentoring more victors than any other district (including Two, thank you very much) but never able to bring enough of the children home.  Until then, she would take a page out of Ingrid’s book.  She would be beautiful, graceful, and never let the Capitol forget that she was a killer underneath her pleasant smile. 

Hans, however, would always be a prat, and he really made Ruby wish that District One didn’t traditionally send four victors with their tributes.  _Even Tamara or Owen would be better,_ she thought, trying not to scowl at the rat-faced jerk when she and Kristoff walked into the dining car.  _I’d even take Walsh over him, and Walsh is as personable as Kristoff’s pet rock!_

* * *

 

“Do try to smile, darling,” Ursula said to Lancelot, although she didn’t feel cheerful at all. 

“Have you noticed the age of our female tribute?” her fellow mentor hissed at her, his handsome face pinched with anger. 

“Of course I did,” she snapped back.  Who would not have?  Everyone back in Eleven knew Rapunzel for her beautiful singing voice, and _everyone_ loved the girl.  But she was only twelve, and twelve year olds never won the Games.

Bringing that casket back to her family would hurt more than most, Ursula reflected, but she didn’t say it.  Not on the train, when she knew the Capitol was listening.  Lancelot should have known better than to open his mouth, but he’d always felt more than was safe for a victor.  _Luckily for him, we’re the only two from Eleven.  That makes us hard to ‘accidentally’ kill off._

_Not like that stopped the President with Philip._

* * *

 

“I think the boy will do well this year,” Graham told Mulan, and watched his laconic district partner shrug. 

“Probably,” she agreed, but her eyes weren’t on Fredrick. 

In fact, Graham didn’t know _where_ her mind was, but it certainly wasn’t on the train with their tributes.  Mulan had won the year after Ariel, and interest in her in the Capitol had waned a bit, so it couldn’t be fear of what was to come.  _I wish they’d lose interest in_ me _sometime soon_ , Graham thought before he could stop himself, feeling a familiar stab of guilt.  Mulan was lucky to be more or less off the market.  He just wished he could join her there, but he’d already been notified—on the sly—by an acquaintance in Victor Affairs that his own _full_ contract would be up for grabs the moment that District Two brought home another male winner.  And that was even worse than his current status of being shared by the ridiculously titled Huntsman Association.

It made it hard to work hard to bring a boy home when he knew that doing so would mean he’d be sold like a slave to some Capitolite, but Graham knew that wasn’t Frederick’s fault.  Or maybe his contact inside the Office of Victor Affairs was wrong.  Two already had a pair of victors living in the Capitol.  Surely Anita and Jack were more than enough, and he could continue as he was.  He was loyal to the Capitol, of course—he was from Two!—but Graham rather liked going home every year, having a bit of control over his own life when he _wasn’t_ required to please people.  No one knew better than Two that their so-called freedom wasn’t actually free, that there was a price to be paid for favor and for peace.  But Graham really didn’t want to pay that price year round.  Not if he could help it.

He hoped Mulan hadn’t gone and fallen in love with someone back home again, particularly since he knew that she didn’t particularly like men.  Everyone knew Walsh’s story, how he’d bene forced to marry and have children in One, even though he was entirely disinterested in the entire act of procreation.  _Not like he or Mulan don’t know how to be involved with the sex they don’t prefer,_ Graham thought, wishing he could be more positive, but unable to shake the dark feeling of dread another train ride to the Capitol brought with it.  _We all know how to do that.  It’s part of being a victor._

* * *

 

Saying goodbye to Grace this year was more bittersweet than most, but at least this year he was _leaving_ her behind instead of bringing her along.  Jefferson had felt like going mad during the Reaping; knowing that his twelve year old daughter’s name was in the Reaping Ball had made him want to go out of his mind with insanity.  But she hadn’t been drawn, and he could barely keep himself from cheering out loud when poor Gretel had been chosen instead.  But at least she was fourteen, and had a bit of a chance—right up until her younger brother was pulled right behind her.

They’d just lost their mother the year before, and were friends of Grace’s to boot, and Jefferson didn’t know how to explain to his little girl that neither of the Tillmans were coming home.  So, he’d kept his mouth shut and hoped for a miracle.  Maybe he and Silvermist could save one of them. 

* * *

 

President Blue watched the Recap impassively.  This group was not so different than usual, even if the girl from Twelve had unexpectedly volunteered.  It would make a nice story, and if she won—which she probably would not—she was pretty and soft enough to stir many a Capitolite’s interest.  This Belle French was determined but terrified, and probably not nearly deadly enough to even make it to the final eight.  But until then, she would excite the crowds and distract people in the districts from their misery.  Like the other twenty-three tributes, she would serve her purpose.

Blue only watched the girl for a few moments, though, and paid the hulking boy chosen from Twelve— _no volunteers there_ , she noted with satisfaction—little heed.  No, her eyes immediately went to the slender victor up there on the stage, sitting in the single chair where there should have been two.  Rumple Gold was, as usual, defiantly clad in a white collared shirt and a pair of worn slacks instead of one of the fine suits he was expected to wear, and looking at that made her scowl.  Oh, he looked better than most of the district, but not better _enough_ , and his little acts of insolence always annoyed her.  He had been her special project almost from the beginning, but he was apparently not cowed enough.

Well.  There were ways to deal with that.

“Glinda,” she said serenely, turning to the woman standing to her left.  “I do believe we need to begin Mr. Gold’s schedule early this year.”

“Of course, Madam President.”

Blue smiled slightly, tuning out Sidney Glass’ and Rabbit White’s commentary as she always did.  They both played their parts well, but she didn’t need to watch them.  Glinda typed a few notes into her pad before looking back up.

“I have several interested parties already.  Shall I begin with tomorrow night?”

“That would be lovely,” she replied.  That would to the trick.  His tributes never lasted long, after all.  Blue had made certain of that ever since Baelfire won.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Belle and Gaston head towards the Capitol, and Belle finds that her district partner really is a meathead. In the meantime, please let me know what you think!
> 
> Sorry for the unexpected pause between the last chapter with this unexpected look into the rest of the world, but I figured I might set the stage a bit and let you know where people are. While you’re waiting for chapter 3, please do let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

Saying goodbye to her family—and forcing her father to promise to take care of Babette and Webster if she died—swept by in a blur.  So did the car ride (her first ever) to the train, where Rumple Gold was waiting for her and Gaston Rosen with a calculating sneer on his face.  He sent them both to the dining car while Mirabella Tink fretted about some problem with the train throwing their schedule off, and Belle followed Gaston numbly.  The massive array of food before them made her blink; there were sweets, candies, breads, and meats filling the train car to bursting.  Hungry though she _always_ was, she had no idea where to start, although Gaston immediately headed over to a tray of meat and cheese and started stuffing his face.

“Eat what you like.  We’ll talk later,” Gold told them both, heading out of the car’s other door and towards the front of the train.  Gaston glared after him, and then shrugged and plopped into a chair.

“You should eat, Belles,” he said to her, and his casual tone made Belle scowl.  Gaston had called her ‘Belles’ for the last year or so, probably because he thought it made him sound intimate. 

She hated the nickname.

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped without thinking, and then shrugged when the words bounced right off her district partner.  Her next statement was painfully honest, though: “I’m not sure I can.”

He shrugged again.  “Your loss.”

Sighing, Belle sat down in a chair across from Gaston, not wanting to sit next to the boy who’d been trying to get her to sleep with him for the last two years.  She _hated_ being in class with him because he somehow thought she should be flattered by his attentions.  And yes, any sane Seam girl would be stupid not to jump at the chance of marrying a boy from a merchant family, but Belle wasn’t one to sell her soul for material comfort.  Not when she hated Gaston as much as she did.  He was a boor, a brute, and utterly selfish.  And he acted like he _entitled_ to Belle’s affections, just because his family was better off than hers.  Even worse, her father _encouraged_ the jerk, telling Belle that she could fall in love with the bakers’ eldest boy in time.  Belle knew how many girls married for security’s sake, and knew that any other Seam girl who had caught Gaston’s eye would have already agreed to marry him.  But she just wasn’t ready to let a buffoon like Gaston decide her fate.

_No one decides my fate but me,_ she thought determinedly, and then almost missed it when Gaston added pompously:

“I’ll protect you as long as I can,” he said, probably thinking it was charitable.  And it was, really.  If Belle hadn’t been capable of taking care of herself.

“Gee, thanks,” she said, but the irony obviously sailed right over his head.

“I’m going to win, you know,” Gaston decreed.  “I’ll be the first victor from Twelve to be _worthy_ of the title.  You’ll see.  I’ll be worlds better than Gold.”

Belle sighed, recognizing the signs of Gaston getting ready to go on a really good ego trip.  “You know, if you win, I won’t be there to see any of it,” she said with a shrug, surprised that she could speak so likely about the possibility of dying.  Then again, Belle had never been one to hide from the truth, even if it left her feeling nauseous and terrified.  “But I bet it really would be something to see.”

Again, her sarcasm rolled right off him like water off a duck’s back.  Belle was pretty sure that Gaston had no idea that she didn’t share his utter certainty of his victory, or that Belle might have _any_ idea of doing so herself.  But she let him puff up like some decorative bird.  She’d just slip into the shadows and let the tributes like Gaston wear themselves out, all the while trying not to think about how she would have to kill people in order to live.

“It will,” Gaston insisted, his eyes glowing.  “I’ll be everyone’s favorite, and I’ll impress the Capitol so much that they’re nicer to our district.  You’ll see.”

“I’m sure I will,” Belle replied drily, shaking her head.  

Gaston was utterly confident that he would win, and Belle wondered how he managed to say those things without falling apart.  There was still a ball of lead in her stomach, one of nerves and nausea that she was certain would not budge until she was dead in the Games.  Oh, Belle wanted to fight for her life, but she only sort of knew how, and District Twelve tributes _never_ came home.  Oh, there’d been one back in the early fifties, not long after Rumple Gold, but no one remembered him since he’d died in the Capitol a few years later.  Then there’d been Baelfire Gold, but somehow his father had gotten his son the victor a free ticket to the Capitol from which Baelfire never returned.  _Capitol sell-out_ , they called Gold in the Hob even when they took his money, never quite bothering to say it behind his back.  Gold either never heard them or ignored them; Belle never cared until that sometimes drunk Capitol sell-out was suddenly the only one that might keep her alive in the arena.

Typically, Gaston declared that he didn’t want anything to do with Gold when their mentor came back, and that he’d win without help.  Gold—looking remarkably sober and self-contained—just raised an eyebrow and told Gaston that he was welcome to ignore him.  Belle, however, started asking questions.

Little by little, she realized that whatever Twelve thought of Gold, they were wrong.  He was sarcastic and sometimes nasty, sure, but he was also straightforward and honest.  She didn’t understand him, not at all, but she quickly realized that he _did_ intend to help them both, and he had good advice.  Belle had never seen the elder Gold’s Games, but she did remember the way that Baelfire Gold had won eight years earlier, and the way that all the commentators had said he was using his father’s brilliant strategies to do it.  _Golden advice,_ Sidney Glass had called it.  Belle had a feeling that was exactly what she was receiving. 

So, she listened and she learned.  And when he asked her if her life was worth fighting for, Belle was able to tell him _yes._   She didn’t want to kill others, but _someone_ had to come out of the arena.  Besides, she knew that her father, sick with black lung and barely able to work, would hardly be able to take care of himself or Alan alone.  If Belle didn’t come back, she didn’t know what they’d do, so she decided that her family was worth fighting for.  So were Babette and Webster.  As the years passed, after she won her games, she would tell herself that again and again.  Her father and her brother had to be worth it, because otherwise, she would fall apart.

Suicide wasn’t an option for victors, after all.  If you did that, your family died anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Belle meets her stylist, starts training, and discovers that there’s more to Gold than meets the eye.
> 
> Please do let me know what you think, and for my tumblr followers, there’s a sneak peek of the next chapter going up today!


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re going to do wonderfully, Belle,” Archie Hopper, her soft spoken stylist, told her as his team put the finishing touches on her costume.  Belle wanted to shake with nerves, wanted to go to pieces, but she couldn’t let herself.  If she started crying now, she would never stop.  _Do the brave thing, and bravery will follow,_ she thought, taking a deep breath.

“Do you really think so?” Belle couldn’t help asking, hating the way her voice shook.

“Oh, yes,” the red haired man replied with a shy smile.  He was strangely _plain_ for a Capitolite, with just a hint of blue eye shadow around his eyes, but Belle found that reassuring compared to her bizarre looking prep team.  She’d find it even _more_ heartening once she saw Gaston’s wild-eyed stylist, Jabber Wocky, who looked like she’d come from another world, not just from the Capitol.  “I think that volunteering for your friend was very brave.”

Belle grimaced, thinking of how her father had promised to look after Babette and Webster, and wondering if Moe French would keep that promise.  Her father wasn’t a bad man, but he had a bad case of black lung from his work in the mines, which meant he wasn’t terribly inclined towards charity.  “People volunteer every year,” she pointed out.

“Not to save others,” Archie countered.  “Tributes from the Career districts volunteer because they want to be in the Games, because they’re trained to be.  You volunteered out of love for a friend.  Personally, I think that’s extraordinary.”

Her face felt hot, and Belle looked down to study her feet.  Her voice was a whisper.  “Thank you.”

“You’re already the most courageous tribute out there,” Archie replied, squeezing her arm.  “Now let me help you show everyone else that.”

Then he showed her how to turn her suit on, and Belle felt her heart leap into her chest.  She knew from watching past Games that the tributes who got the most attention received the most sponsorships, and Archie and Jabber’s ideas were _amazing._   By the end of the day, the Capitol was calling her the _Girl on Fire_ , and she knew that she actually might have a chance.

* * *

 

The first two days in the Capitol were a whirlwind.  Belle didn’t quite know what to do with herself, with the sudden adoration of the crowd after their chariot ride—and amazing costumes!—and Gaston’s sudden distant anger. 

“You stole my spotlight,” he accused her on the first day of training, wheeling away from Belle after shooting her a glare.  Gaston promptly marched away to the weapons stand, grabbing a spear and pairing off with one of the trainers as Belle headed for edible plants.  Later, her district partner blatantly ignored Gold’s advice and showed off his (rather impressive) strength, heaving weights around like they were nothing.

Belle, meanwhile, avoided the bow and arrows, no matter how tempting they were.  Gold had told her to try them out on the last day, just to make a shot or two and make sure that the bow had the right pull for her (how he knew enough about bows to make that remark, she didn’t know), but for now, Belle steered clear of her best weapon.  Meanwhile, she learned to use knives for more than just skinning animals, working with one of the trainers to find a body’s weak spots.  Spots where someone her size could take down someone a hundred pounds heavier than she was and a foot taller.

_Not Gaston.  He might be an oaf, but he’s from home.  I hope I don’t have to kill him._  Two days earlier, Belle would never have even contemplated the possibility of killing _anyone_ , but now she was determined.  Just one conversation with Gold, when he’d asked her if she had something worth fighting for, had crystalized that purpose in her mind.  Belle was going home.  She was going to _live._

So, she let Gaston’s grumbling roll off her and just shrugged when they got in the elevator together that evening, heading up for the “penthouse” apartment.  Belle had spent the day befriending Rapunzel from District Eleven, and she already liked the dark-skinned girl a lot better than she’d ever liked Gaston.  In some ways, Rapunzel reminded her of Babette: sweet, caring, and far too good for these Games.  Belle wasn’t exactly a cruel person herself, but she _was_ determined, and she’d been hunting for enough years to have seen bloodshed.  She had never killed anyone, of course, but she wasn’t as innocent as Gold had laughingly labeled her, either.

“You didn’t even do anything useful today,” Gaston sneered as soon as the elevator doors clicked shut.  “Just looked at plants and talked to that skinny girl from Eleven.  She’s useless.”

“ _She_ has a name, and it’s Rapunzel,” Belle snapped back, goaded into defending her new friend.  “And she knows a lot about what you can eat and what you can’t, and she’s better at sneaking into places than you’llever be.  She’s an expert climber, too, far better than me.”

Gaston snorted.  “Who needs to sneak around or search for food when you’re strong enough to go into the cornucopia and get whatever you need?”

“You do know that people die in the bloodbath, right?” she countered.

“I won’t.”

“Anything can happen in the Games.”  Belle barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but Gaston wasn’t listening, anyway.

“To you, maybe,” he retorted.  “In fact, maybe it’s good that you’re being useless.  Then nobody back home will expect me to look after you for too long.”

“Look ‘after’me?  Really?”  The elevator doors opened as she gaped, and Belle strode through them without looking back.  “I don’t need some burly brute to protect me, Gaston, and if I did, I wouldn’t want it to be you!”

 “Fine, then.  Have it your way.  I was _going_ to offer you a bit of comfort and companionship before you die, in exchange for my protection, but I suppose you aren’t worth it,” he growled as the doors to the Twelve apartment opened in front of them.  “But then again, once I go home as a victor, I suppose I can have anyone I want.”

“You make me sick, you know that, Gaston?” Belle sighed, pushing past the pair of avoxes and striding for her own room.  The last person she wanted to share air with right now was Gaston; she couldn’t _believe_ that he acted like she should be grateful that he wanted to have sex with her before the Games.  As if she’d _ever_ wanted him!

Belle wasn’t expecting to be jerked up short by a hand that gripped her arm like iron, almost yanking her right off her feet.

“Well, that’s too bad, because you need me in there, don’t you?  Because you’re not even going to make a good showing without me.  I always knew that you were only hunting with Loxsley to get into his pants.  Everyone always wondered why he hasn’t remarried, given that he makes a good living blasting in the mines, but you’ve been angling to change that, haven’t you?”

“I— _what_?” she gaped, unable to even process those ludicrous words.  Robin was her friend, and although Belle knew she could do a lot worse, _everyone_ knew he was still pining after Marian, dead these last two years from the winter sickness.

“That’s enough, Gaston,” a new voice cut in even as her district partner laughed.  “Let her go.”

“Stay out of this, drunk.”

Rumple Gold snorted.  “I hate to disappoint you, dearie, but I’m not drunk,” he drawled, standing there without his cane and somehow radiating danger.  “And what _you_ are is in danger of needing reconstruction on those hands of yours before the Games can begin.”

“What?” Gaston asked, blinking with confusion.  But Belle had already seen the knife in Gold’s hand, and she wondered if he really would use it on one of his own tributes.

_He won the Games,_ she reminded herself.  _Don’t forget that he must have killed people, other kids, to do that._   That was years ago, and everyone back home assumed Gold was washed up and drunk, but the intensity in his eyes said otherwise.  Yes, Belle decided, Gold probably would twist Gaston into a knot, particularly judging from the light and practiced way in which he held the knife.  The only real question was if he’d nick her—or worse—in the process.

“I killed three careers with nothing but a knife in my own games, boy, and it’s a talent I’ve kept up with,” Gold replied coldly, his dark eyes never leaving Gaston’s face.  “So, unless you prefer me to call the Peacekeepers up here to deal with you trying to harm your fellow tribute, which is expressly against the rules”—he twirled his free hand ever so slightly, and Belle found the gesture oddly mesmerizing—“you’ll be dealing with me.  And you don’t want to do that, now, do you, dearie?”

Growling under his breath, Gaston let Belle go and then stalked off without another word, leaving her standing in the foyer facing their coldly casual mentor.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, a little unnerved by the sudden way that the ‘irresponsible drunk’ had proven dangerous.

“Of course,” he replied with a shrug, and then gestured at her room.  “You’d best clean yourself up for dinner.  We can’t have poor Tink getting into a tizzy because she has to see a tiny bit of sweat at the dinner table.”

Despite herself, and the bruises forming on her left forearm, Belle snorted out a giggle.  “Oh, the horrors.”

“Indeed.”  Gold quirked a smile, and Belle was suddenly struck by how much the expression changed his face.  She found herself smiling back, but Gold was the one who turned away with a self-conscious shrug and disappeared in the direction of the giant room with the television screen, leaving Belle to wonder what kind of man _really_ lay underneath the prickly exterior.

She shouldn’t bother trying to puzzle her enigmatic mentor out, of course.  Belle knew she should focus on the Games, should focus on her survival, and yet there was something about Gold that intrigued her. 

* * *

 

“You have an appointment tonight,” Tink said to Gold later that evening, her voice surprisingly soft and normal sounding.  “Glinda Goodwin called.”

Gold went oddly tense as she handed him a folded piece of expensive paper, but it was Gaston who butted in while Belle watched.

“Appointment for what?” her district partner asked aggressively, and Tink’s sober expression flashed over into a bright smile.

“To get the two of you sponsors, of course!” she trilled.  “But with two tributes like you, there’ll be no difficulty at all, right, Rumple?”

Their mentor snorted.  “Right.”

Without a further word, he vanished into his own bedroom, and came out twenty minutes later dressed in a fancier suit than Belle would have thought he liked at all.  It fit him perfectly and made him look both dangerous and handsome, but there was something in the all-too-casual way he wore it that just seemed…off.

He had his cane again, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: The aftermath of Gold’s ‘appointment’, and Belle being compassionately Belle.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions of rape/non-con in this chapter. It’s not graphic, but this chapter is rated M for a reason.

It wasn’t one of the worst ones, at least.  This had just been sex, plain and simple, with Rodmilla Tremaine and her two daughters.  They weren’t his most brutal patrons, at least, though they certainly were a _demanding_ bunch, and always expected the lowborn victor from District Twelve to be properly grateful for their attention.  It was only sex, when you got down to it, only the degradation of pretending that he _liked_ it, that he was eager for their claw-like touches.  Smiling at them, playing like he wanted to be there and was honored to be chosen by them chipped away at his soul little by little.  Each time he went to some other grand Capitol apartment to play whore, Rumple felt like he lost a little bit of himself…but he had no choice.

He hadn’t had a choice for the last twenty years.  Why would that have changed now?  The first time had come shortly after his own Games, and with the exception of a short-lived respite when he was too drunk and too angry for anyone but his regulars to want, Rumple had been one of President Blue’s top victor-whores.  He had the unfortunate kind of face that only got better with age, and every year, more and more buyers crawled out of the woodworks.  Most of them, unfortunately, were not like the Tremaine family.  At least the Tremaines just wanted sex and personal pleasure, wanted to use him like some toy to get themselves off.  Most of the others, however, were more into pain.

Rumple had been one of the ‘problem’ victors almost from the beginning, but the fact that he’d brought his own son home from the Games had put him firmly into that category.  He’d never imagined how bad things could get, but the fact that he was already being sold, before the Games even started, told Rumple this was going to be a very bad year.

So, he headed back to the Training Center, drained and aching and trying to dredge up enough soul to care about the pair of tributes he’d brought to the Capitol this year.  They were better than usual, with Gaston sticking out as a live longshot already.  Even the normally sticky-fisted Tremaines were contemplating putting money down on him.  But Rumple’s money—assuming he was foolish enough to bet—would have been on Belle French.  She had the look in her eyes, the one he knew all too well, the one that said she would be coming home.  Period.  He remembered feeling like that, so many years ago, and he knew that the tributes who held tight to that feeling were usually the ones who won.  _She_ was worth fighting for, so for Belle’s sake, he wouldn’t crawl into a bottle tonight and try to drink away the memory of hands he didn’t want touching him and high-pitched Capitol giggles. 

He’d brought home two tributes in twenty years, three if you counted the fact that he’d survived, too.  That was an astronomical record for a district that hadn’t had as single victor in the first forty-nine years of the Games, but maybe, just maybe, Rumple could defy the odds one more time, and bring home this blue-eyed girl who would not take no for an answer.

“Any luck with the sponsors?” a voice asked as he stepped into the Twelve apartment, and Rumple wheeled to face her.  Damn it all; he was starting to get overconfident and foolish.  Otherwise, this slip of a girl should never have been able to sneak up on him.

Or maybe it was the cocktail of drugs the Tremaines had slipped into him, which still left him uncomfortably hard, oversensitive to touch, and his mind slightly foggy.  The last property of the painful shot they’d given him made him turn to face Belle, blinking a little dizzily and wishing desperately for a shower and bed.  Preferably without a curious tribute to talk to first.

“Perhaps,” he answered unevenly.  “There’s no knowing until the Games start. Sponsors won’t put down cash on someone who might die during the Bloodbath.”

“Of course.” 

Dressed in her nightgown, Belle looked impossibly young and innocent, and Rumple made a mental note not to let anyone see her without makeup on.  _Or perhaps…_ Innocent and loyal.  Determined and brave.  Maybe that was the angle he needed for her.  Gaston could play the strong and muscular District Tribute. It would be better that way, and then he wouldn’t have to say much, anyway.  _Everything will be_ much _better if the idiot keeps his mouth shut,_ Rumple thought, studying Belle through the fog.  Yeah, he could give her an image the Capitol would remember.  She would be—

“Are you all right?” the girl in question asked quietly, stepping forward to touch his arm and making Rumple jump.  For a moment, he was back with the Tremaines, with hands everywhere and a false smile on his face, purring seductively at one of the sisters—he could never keep them straight—and playing at being some brilliant but uncultured barbarian whom they needed to tame into submission.  But he shook himself out of the memory as quickly as he could, right about when his hands started itching to wrap around someone’s neck and squeeze the life out of them in payment for the innocence he’d once lost.

“Perfectly fine,” he forced himself to answer.

“You don’t look fine,” Belle pointed out gently.

“There’s nothing you can help with, dear,” he said, not unkindly, but pulled away all the same.  There was something about those blue eyes that seemed able to see into his very soul, and Rumple could not afford that.  Not if he was going to bring this girl out of the arena alive.

Gaston didn’t matter.  _Belle_ did.

 

* * *

 

Killian was waiting for him the next morning, right after Rumple dropped his two tributes off for training.  Killian had done the same, of course, and because of that, Panem’s favorite killer was living on something of a short fuse.   Normally, Killian was better than anyone at hiding his inner feelings.  He could make Capitolites think he liked them, even _loved_ them.  Rumple just barely managed to hide the bulk of his contempt for them, concealing it behind arrogance and an intelligence that even the Capitol could appreciate from some hick from District Twelve.   Today, however, Killian Jones’ face told the story of his worry and his tension.  He stood waiting outside the elevator, having sent his partner in mentorship, Ariel, ahead despite the obviously concerned look she threw Killian over her shoulder.

Gold, of course, had no partner to avoid, so he simply stepped into the elevator with Jones and leaned back against the wall, lifting his cane to study it disinterestedly.  He didn’t need to look to know that Killian had punched the button to take the elevator up to the roof, and Rumple didn’t bother to say a word until after the doors were closed.

“Touchy today, dearie?” he asked lightly, tilting his head slightly to see the answering scowl.  Rumple and Killian were not precisely friends; they goaded one another and exchanged barbed remarks more often than they spoke amicably.  But underneath the apparent hostility—played up even further whenever there was a camera nearby—existed a firm understanding.

“Not at all,” Killian shot back as the elevator swept past the fourth floor, where the male mentor for that district _should_ have gotten off.  The ‘boy with the hook’s’ eyes glinted sharply.  “Though I hear _you_ got started early last night.  Are you trying to steal the Tremaine ladies’ affections away from me?”

“You know I can’t resist the seductive charms of Capitol women,” he responded drily, not bothering to hide his eye roll.

“You think you’re an old fox, Gold, but you’re really just a bastard.”

Rumple grinned nastily.  “The best sort.”

Killian snorted, but was otherwise silent until the elevator doors opened with a cheerful _ding._   Rumple gestured for the younger victor to exit first, lifting his cane to follow without bothering with the pretext of needing it to walk.  Silently, they moved to the edge of the rooftop, standing just shy of the force field where the wind was noisy and there were no cameras to spy on them.

“Do you think it’s going to start early for all of us from now on, or did you piss someone off?” Killian asked.

“The later, of course.  I’m so good at doing so that even I can’t keep every time I do so straight,” Rumple replied with a shrug, wondering exactly what it was he had done this time.  _If Blue knew the thoughts rolling through my head, she’d_ kill _me, not sell me._ After all, victors had died in accidents before.  Like Philip.

“You really need to stop drawing in the bad ones, mate,” the Four victor replied.  “I know the type that like you, and they like to leave marks.”

“Do you think I wouldn’t if I could?” he countered.  “I don’t _like_ pain, dear.  Rather the contrary.”

“Then maybe you should stop being so ornery.”

“Right.  Just like you’re going to stop being the sexy playboy,” Rumple retorted.  “The Capitol gives us all images, and you know as well as I do that we’re expected to remain as they want us.  You’re the suave lover they pour their idiotic hearts out to.  I’m the arrogant mastermind who needs to be beaten into submission.”

Killian grimaced.  “Touché.”

“We are what we are,” he said quietly, hating the admission as much as he hated what the Capitol forced him to be.  But he _had_ been lucky tonight.  There was no question about that.  The Tremaines were far gentler than the vast majority of his patrons.  Rumple had no doubt that he’d wind up keeping far _less_ pleasant engagements after his tributes died this year.  _Belle has a chance,_ the annoying voice of optimism pointed out, but he silenced it out of habit.  Rumple hadn’t brought a victor home since Bae won, and he knew that Blue had no intention of ever letting him do so again.  He’d broken the unwritten rules, brought home the only “legacy tribute” to ever win the Games (causing Sidney Glass to coin the term “legacy victor” and hope for more), and every future Twelve tribute would suffer for that.

“Your boy looks pretty good this year,” the other man pointed out, obviously following Rumple’s line of thought.

Most every victor was for sale, after all.  Or at least the ones who were desirable enough that there were still buyers.  Older victors, like Granny from Nine, Geppetto from Seven, and Zoso from Five were generally off the market, but the rest of them were all up for grabs.  The Office of Victor Affairs was happy to sell any whores that the Capitol would buy, and, well, there were all kinds of tastes here.   No matter how bizarre the fetish, how painful the experience, or who they were married to or in love with back home, the victors all knew they had to comply.  If they didn’t…well, victors didn’t pay the price.  Their families did.

“He’s an idiot,” Rumple replied dismissively.  He almost told Killian that Belle was the one to watch, but he stopped himself just in time.  Oh, he _could_ work to form an alliance for Belle with the careers, but those kids would turn on her quickly once they realized how good she was with a bow.  Gaston, on the other hand…

“So much the better.  You think he’s good alliance material?” was the next question.  Killian didn’t have to explain; being with the traditional career alliance would make Gaston live longer, though if he truly was as much of an idiot as Rumplestiltskin thought he was, Gaston wouldn’t survive that for too long.  The others would run circles around him, and probably stab him in the back the moment they got bored enough.  Still, it might be a good idea.

“I’ll see if he’s interested.”

And just like that, alliances were made.  It was as easy as selling a victor, Rumple reflected, thinking of the strategies he’d tell Belle to use in the games.  She was smart enough to listen, unlike Gaston, which meant she just might have a chance.  Gaston would probably be dumb enough to think he could survive alone, but Rumple would try to give the fool his best chance.  Belle, however…Belle he could help.  Assuming she survived the bloodbath at the beginning.

“What, you stopped just _telling_ your tributes how to survive the Games?” Killian’s tone was a little teasing, and Rumple snorted.

“Not at all.  He’s just too…determined to listen.”

“Ah.  I know the type.  They tend to die fast.”

“That they do.”

After all, if there was any lesson a victor learned quickly, it was that survival came at a price.  They’d all sold their souls to come out of that arena alive, and they continued to do so in order to keep those they loved safe.  Everyone thought that winning the Games meant comfort, safety, and security for life.  Victors knew differently.  Their choice was simple: let the Capitol sell their bodies, or watch their friends and family suffer.

Rumple knew all about that last part from experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: We head back into the past to look at Killian Jones’ early experiences as a mentor. While you’re waiting, please review!


	6. Chapter 6

**6.**

_ Five Years Ago _

“You bastard!”

In the year of the 66th Games, their newest victor launched himself at another victor, blue eyes blazing and ready to kill.  They were in Mentor Central, the one place where Blackbeard had told him that the Capitol mostly let victors manage their own affairs.  Officially, the victors were all there for some informational meeting, but it had turned out to be just some empty-headed Senior Escort sprouting off lines about fair play and keeping ones’ tributes under control.  Apparently, this meeting happened every year, and once the rainbow-haired Capitolite (whether it was a male or female seemed to be part of an ongoing betting pool) left, the victors started to mingle.  There were peacekeepers outside, but they’d only interfere if it seemed like a real ruckus was going to erupt.  That didn’t usually happen, but today it just might.  If Killian had his way, however, they wouldn’t manage to get there until he’d had his pound of blood.

Much to his surprise, a hand whipped out as he stalked past District Twelve’s elder victor, catching him by the shoulder and yanking him up short.  Twisting furiously, he stared at the owner of that black-clad arm, noticing that the suit it wore was just as expensive as the clothes his own prep team had tricked him out in.

“We don’t attack our own, lad,” the older Gold told him, his voice surprisingly gentle.  Killian remembered seeing plenty of this man on TV in the year before his own Games, when he’d given interview after interview for his son and tribute.  Killian also remembered meeting both Golds on his own Victory Tour, but he’d been more concerned with the younger one, who had won just the year before he had. Killian had made friends with Baelfire without really paying attention to his father, but it was Rumple Gold who had yet to release his shoulder.

For an old man fifteen removed from winning his own Games, he still felt pretty damn strong.  _I killed five tributes in the arena with nothing but a grappling hook.  I can take him._   Still confident after his own victory, and seething with years’ old anger, Killian snarled:

“He killed my brother!”

Graham, the District 2 victor of the 62nd Games, exchanged a glance with Gold, and then replied gruffly: “And mine died during Jefferson’s Games.”  He nodded towards a tall, handsome man who sat at the District 6 consoles off to the right.  “And Kristoff killed Abigail’s younger sister, too.”

“So?” Killian demanded hotly, looking at all of his fellow victors—now mentors, he supposed—and wondering why none of them were doing anything but watching.  And where the hell was Blackbeard, anyway?  The other victor from Four should be there watching his back, shouldn’t he?

“We’ve all lost family to the Capitol.”  Surprisingly, it was Gold who spoke up again as Graham gave him a sympathetic shrug, and surprisingly, he didn’t pretty up his words, either.  “No one understands you like the people in this room.  Not your family, not your friends.  And in this _lovely_ place”—it was obvious by his droll tone that he was referring to the Capitol—“your fellow victors are all you have.  Don’t waste that with a grudge, boy.”

“But…”

“I am sorry, for what it’s worth,” Graham said quietly as Gold released Killian.  “More than you can know.”

Later, Killian would learn that Graham’s “partial” contract had been bought out immediately, tying him to a collection of men and women every time he was in the Capitol—because, apparently, the bidding had been so fierce that a group finally decided to share him.  Every victor knew that Graham’s days were numbered; as soon as there was another male victor from Two, he’d wind up living in the Capitol year-round as that consortium’s sex slave.  Later, Killian would learn rather personally how vicious and fickle said clients could be, too, and it was Graham who helped him deal with those earliest days.  Graham and both Golds, who clearly knew far too much about the circuit from personal experience.

* * *

 

Baelfire plopped down next to Killian about an hour later, carefully giving his successor time to cool off first.  They were just about the same age (only six months apart, a distinction that meant Killian was the youngest victor _ever_ , a crown Bae was happy to have avoided earning), and they’d hit it off during Killian’s victory tour.  Bae hadn’t tried to get in the way when his father stopped the other young victor from going after Graham, because his father had mentioned—way back in Mentor Central during Killian’s Games, before Killian had even gotten ahold of that ‘legendary’ grappling hook—that Liam Jones had died at Graham’s hands, and that could be trouble.

Bae wasn’t sure how his father kept everything straight; so far as he knew, the elder Gold never wrote a single one of these facts down, yet he still seemed to know everything about every other victor.  Oh, there were others who knew a lot, too; Granny was alternatively maternal and nosy, Maleficent was sneakier than she let on, and Jafar was a freaking _genius_ who didn’t need electronic toys to eavesdrop.  But somehow his father always seemed to know more, and Bae just kind of figured that was how Rumple Gold’s mind worked.  He’d listened to his father talk about the Games—and how to win them—ever since he was old enough to help strategize, and he was smart enough to know that his papa was even smarter than he was.  Still, watching it was rather amazing, particularly when Rumple started predicting which tribute would die first (after the Bloodbath, of course).  It was a macabre type of humor, but one the other victors seemed to appreciate, though Bae wasn’t sure if his new friend could swallow it just yet. 

Killian might have been a career, might have grown up knowing that he’d be in the Games someday (even if he had been accidentally drawn from the Reaping Ball a few years before he was scheduled to volunteer), but he hadn’t grown up in a victor’s _house_.  Bae knew a lot of things about being a victor that his dad had never had to teach him, and he knew that he’d adjusted faster than most.  Still, Killian had help, had other victors at home, and Bae would try to pass a few things along, too.

Assuming that the pigheaded Four victor would bother learning, that was.

“Got control of your temper yet?” he asked congenially, and earned himself a glare.

“They kept him away during my Victory Tour,” Killian grumbled.  “He stabbed my brother in the back. How am I supposed to forget that?”

“You’re not,” Bae said bluntly.  “But when you gutted the Two girl last year, was it personal?”

“Of course not.  I was just trying to survive.”

“So was Graham,” he shrugged.  “So was I.  We’re a bunch of killers, Killian.  But Pop was right. These people really are the only ones who get it.”

The younger victor—now only fifteen—sighed.  “Yeah, I know.  Blackbeard…he told me what’s coming when I turn sixteen.  Right after he whacked me upside the head for going after Graham.”

“Oh.”  Bae’s father had warned him, too, but it had been the other…demonstration that drove the point home for him.  Bae was fifteen and a half now, which meant he only had one more year before he went up on the chopping block himself.  Part of him was terrified and part of him just wanted to get it _over_ with already; he knew where his papa went in the evenings while their tributes slept, and part of Bae just wanted to understand.  After all, that day was coming eventually, wasn’t it?  He swallowed. “I thought he would have told you earlier.”

“Why bother?  It’s a year away,” Killian replied.  “For both of us, right?”

“Yeah.”  Bae found himself snorting, with some of the dark humor returning.  “Wonder if they’ll sell the pair of us as a two-for-one special?”

Killian’s eyes went wide for a moment before the other victor decided to laugh, but there was a moment there when Bae thought he might choke.  “God, I hope not.”

“Better you than some weirdly-tattooed Capitolite,” he replied with a shrug.  “At least I know you, and you don’t smell funny.  Do you?”

He made a show of sniffing Killian, and got shoved away for his troubles, but at least now Killian was genuinely laughing.  “You’re sick, mate.  Just plain sick.”

“Don’t worry.  The disease is catching.  You’ll see.”

“ _Great_.”

“Hey, laugh or cry, right?” Bae said as lightly as he could, not mentioning that he was certain there would be plenty of crying, too.  For both of them.  He knew about the nightmares his father tried to hide from him, after all, and knew that most of them weren’t from Rumple’s own Games.  Not these days.  “And you don’t smell, for the record.”

“Oh, thanks,” Killian said dryly.  “You really know how to make someone feel better, don’t you, Baelfire?”

“Well, you’re laughing, at least,” he pointed out, lounging back in his chair and crossing his ankles.  They lived in a really screwed up world, but Bae knew enough to know that as long as the victors stood together, it wouldn’t be so bad.  “And call me Bae.  My friends do.”

That wasn’t a name he’d ever offer a Capitolite, but Killian was a victor, too.  He was as popular as Bae was, also; Killian had the makings of a heartthrob while Baelfire was the first ever Legacy Victor.  They were in this together, whether they liked it or not, the only two victors to ever win the Games before they turned fifteen. Lizard had won at fifteen and a half seven years earlier, but she was twenty-two now.  The closest victor to their actual ages was Kristoff, and he’d been eighteen when he won the year before Bae, which meant he was over twenty, five years older than both of them.  Compared to the others, they looked like kids…and sometimes Bae felt like one, particularly with his father in the room.

“Bae it is,” Killian agreed, and they chatted aimlessly—mostly about Capitol food and the really weird television shows available in their districts—until an avox walked into the room and caught everyone’s attention.  Conversations quieted, but the young and dark-skinned man only made his way over to Bae’s father and handed him a sealed note.

“Damn,” Bae said softly, knowing what those beautifully folded pieces of paper meant.  He’d seen enough of them last year, though none had his name on them.  Yet.

His father’s expression never really changed; it just went blank and closed off, with the ease in his posture vanishing.  When Bae had become a victor, he’d been shocked to see that his papa could actually relax around these people, almost as much as he could only do within the safety of their own home.   But now the tension was back, and Bae felt like a fist had closed around his heart.

“Well, ladies and gents, as illuminating as your company has been, it appears that my presence has been requested elsewhere,” the elder Gold said flippantly, but Bae could see that the act really didn’t fool any of the others.  They knew.

“Who this time?” Granny spoke up in her normal blunt fashion.  The old woman was still straight-backed and dangerous, for all that she was gray haired and wrinkled, and Bae had liked her from the beginning, even when she and his father got in one spat or another.

“Cruella de Vil,” Rumple snorted.  Bae didn’t know that name, but he _could_ read the others’ reactions well enough.

“Bad luck, man,” Jefferson commented softly, even as Kristoff barked out a forced laugh.

“Maybe you should go buy some furs, first.  She might spend more time petting them than you,” the One victor suggested, making most everyone else laugh.  There _was_ humor in the laughter, too, but it was a dark and broken humor only victors could share.

Baelfire’s papa did crack a smile.  “Not your worst idea, dearie, but hardly your best.  Don’t quit your day job.”

“I don’t _have_ a day job,” Kristoff retorted.

“That’s because you picked raising reindeer as your talent,” Elsa put in, ribbing her mentoring partner gently.  “ _No_ one wants to hire someone who smells like reindeer, even if they are a victor.”

The laughter was a tad more natural this time, but Bae was too busy meeting his father’s eyes to notice.  His papa would probably be out late, and Bae could only give him a nod.  He’d take care of the tributes, and then he’d wait up.  Of course, the elder Gold wouldn’t want him to, but he would anyway.

“Bet I could cook up one hell of a reindeer steak,” Granny was saying while Bae hadn’t been listening, and the resulting discussion gave his father an opportunity to slip out while everyone pretended not to notice.  Once he had, however, Killian leaned over to ask quietly:

“What was that?”

Bae swallowed, staring at the door through which his father had followed the avox out.  “Our future.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Pre-Games interviews, and Belle and Gold share a moment of understanding. Also, Gamemaker Regina watches and plans.
> 
> While you’re waiting, please do let me know what you think! This is so far from my normal type of story, and I am always hesitant to keep going with it. Comments and kudos are love!


	7. Chapter 7

“I’m nervous,” Belle admitted quietly, staring down at her hands.  It was her turn to sit down with Gold and talk about what she would say in her interview, and Belle was completely at a loss.  She kept wringing her hands aimlessly, glad that Archie and her prep team would somehow fix the nails she’d been chewing on. 

“Don’t be,” Gold reassured her, and something in his voice made her look up.  “Just be yourself.  They already love you.  You came across as loyal and brave when you volunteered for your friend, and then fierce and determined in that Girl on Fire getup.  Frankly, you’re making my job pretty easy.  Just smile that smile of yours, and you’ll have plenty of sponsors.”

“What smile of mine?” Belle asked, confused.

“Trust me.  Just smile.”

Why did he have to choose _now_ to be mysterious, of all times?  Belle had thought she had a decent read on her mentor, that she’d at least found a way to peek beneath the hard exterior and see something more.  She’d at least figured out that he wasn’t at all what people back in Twelve thought he was; Gold wasn’t a drunk, he wasn’t uncaring, and he was doing his best to help Belle and Gaston survive the Games.  He was _smart,_ too, which Belle really hadn’t expected.  Somehow, she’d never thought of victors as particularly intelligent, but Gold, at least, seemed to turn that assumption on its head.  No one back home realized how clever he was, either, or at least no one she’d ever heard grumbling about him did.  Smart she could handle, however.  Mysterious was annoying.

Belle gave him a look.  “You gonna be more specific than that?”

“I don’t think I need to be,” he replied, and his half smile was almost cute.  _Why am I thinking about that right now?  Have I gone insane?_ The last thing Belle needed before going into the Hunger Games was to feel even the faintest of attractions to an enigmatic man twice her age.  “You’ll do fine, Belle.  Just remember when you get up on that stage: _show them what you want them to see._   Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Like a persona,” she replied thoughtfully.

“Exactly.”  He seemed pleased that she understood so quickly.  “The Capitol is both very complicated and very simple.  People here like their ‘heroes’ simple and predictable.  Don’t be too complex.  It’ll only confuse them.”

“What, being a real person will confuse them?”  Surely things weren’t _that_ weird here.  Belle had already caught on to the fact that the Capitol was so very different from anything she’d ever experienced before, and the people were a bit, well, odd, but…

“Utterly,” Gold said dryly, and Belle thought she saw him roll his eyes.

“They can’t be that shallow, can they?”

“Of course they can, dearie.  This isn’t the districts.  This is the _Capitol_.  They’ll watch with glee while you fight for your life, after reducing you down to the most simplistic version of yourself.  That’s what they _like_.  You’re not a person to them, Belle.  You’re a tribute.”

That sheer sharp-edged honesty made her swallow, but Belle forced herself to nod.  She didn’t want to be lied to, and she didn’t want him to try to make this pretty.  She wanted the truth.

“So, what do I do?” she asked.

And he told her.

 

* * *

 

Her interview felt like it took forever, even though Sidney Glass—dressed in sparkling blue this year, with a huge smile—was far nicer than Belle had expected.  He asked her about Babette, about volunteering, and how she liked the Capitol.  They were all vanilla questions, things Gold had told her to anticipate, and Belle tried her best to be engaging and intelligent.  _Brave, loyal, and determined_ became her mantra.  Gold had been right.  Keeping it simple for the audience was best, and they’d remember her that way.  He’d also been right when he said that Sidney would help her.

“So, Belle, tell me what’s going to make you stand out in these Games,” he said about a minute in right after she’d finished showing off her fiery red dress.  The crowd was going wild for her already; now, all Belle had to do was keep them.  _Thank you, Archie,_ she thought silently, glancing briefly at her stylist in the front row.

“I’m going to stand out because I’m going home,” she replied as firmly as she could, turning to look Sidney straight in the eye.  “My family needs me.  My father is sick, my brother is too young to work, and Babette is like a sister to me.  We don’t have a lot of money.  Things are…hard.  I can’t leave them to face it alone.”

Belle had to be careful not to lay it on too thick.  Gold had been right.  The Capitol didn’t want to think of kids suffering and starving in the districts.  They didn’t want to hear that _everyone_ had a hard time surviving in Twelve.  Their perfect little world included dirty and uncouth districts, but not actual hurt and death.  She could see that in the faces watching her; the crowd was interested in _her_ , but not in whatever suffering she had faced back home. They didn’t care about the districts, really.  They only wanted to be entertained, and right now, she made a catchy story: the Girl on Fire who was determined to go home.

“You’re a very brave girl, aren’t you?  First, you take care of your family, and then you volunteer for your friend.”

Belle made herself smile the way that Gold said would win people over.  “I’ve always believed that if you do the brave thing, bravery will follow.”

“Wonderful saying!” Sidney grinned.  “But let me get this straight.  Are you telling me that you’re going to win this year’s Games?” People in the audience oohed and awhed, and Belle tried not to shiver.  “That’s not just brave—it’s mighty confident!”

“I’m telling you that I _have_ to,” Belle said bluntly, looking out at the crowd and letting her real self bleed through the persona she was wearing, just for a moment.  This was _her_ determination, _her_ soul on the line.  “My Pa isn’t so good with money.  He’ll waste whatever he gets.  Without me, he’s going to make a mess of things.  So I _have_ to go home.”

“And what are you going to do to make that happen?”

“Whatever it takes.  I’ll do whatever it takes.”

* * *

 

The Twelve girl was full of unexpected surprises, Regina reflected, sitting back and watching the third arrow in a row hit the center of the target.  Chewing thoughtfully on a carrot stick—her mother would _kill_ her if she got fat, and Regina hated purging—she turned to look at Stefan King, the head gamemaker.

“She’s a good one,” she said, thinking back to her last—illicit, of course, conversation with Gold.  Gold had said that his girl was the one to watch, not his boy, and Regina had to agree.  Belle French was going to do more than add spice to the Games just by volunteering.

“If she was a career, I’d give her an eleven,” Stefan sniffed, deep into his brandy already.  He really was a stuck up fool, but Regina had always known that.

“I know, I know,” she replied, rolling her eyes.  “The highest score you’ve _ever_ given an outlying district kid is an eight.”

“They don’t deserve any higher.”

“That’s why you should do it this year,” she pressed him, leaning forward to put a hand on his arm.  Stefan turned, just like she’d known he would, and now he was looking right down the front of her sparkly black dress.  _Shallow as always,_ Regina told herself, resisting the urge to smile.  “Give her that eleven.  Make the Games more exciting.  She’ll add a little spice, and won’t that make up for last year’s boredom?”

Ruby had pretty much walked all over the rest of the field last year, and rumor said that President Blue wasn’t pleased with her Head Gamemaker because of it.  Regina really didn’t care who won; she just wanted to have a good showing.  Gold was an old friend, and she _liked_ to see his tributes do well, but she wasn’t here to play favorites.  She was a Gamemaker, and on her way to the top.

* * *

 

“Do you always come up here the night before the Games?” Belle asked quietly, having gone up to the roof herself because she couldn’t sleep.  Gaston was snoring away already, the noise so loud that Belle could hear him from the hallway, but she hadn’t expected to find her mentor up here, too.

“Occasionally,” Gold shrugged, standing near the edge—again, without his cane.  “It’s quiet and nice for thinking.”

“Yeah.  It even makes the Capitol look pretty,” she replied with a smile. 

“Careful, dearie, you’re starting to sound like a cynic.”

Belle snorted.  “Whose fault is that?” she asked pointedly. 

That made her mentor chuckle, and it was a genuine chuckle, not the sarcastic one he pointed at Gaston all the time.  “I can’t imagine.”

“You’re the one who told me to put on some persona to make them like me,” she retorted.

“You’re the one who did it.”  And now that was almost a grin on Gold’s face, wasn’t it? He looked different when he smiled, younger and less angry.  But thinking of him as a human being only served to remind Belle of everything she had to lose, of life and the fact that she was going into the arena _tomorrow._   Just thinking about that made her shiver.

“Do you think it will work?” she found herself whispering.

“I think you’ve got a good chance.”

Belle bit her lip.  “Honestly?”

“I’m not the sort to lie to you to make you feel better, Belle,” Gold answered, turning to face her instead of staring out at the lights of the Capitol.  “If you play this smart, you can survive.”

“Most people say ‘win’, not survive,” she said, watching his face carefully.

“Well, most people in this city seem to think that it’s actually a game, so I’m not sure that’s a good standard to go by.”  His response was light, but Belle sensed something behind the casual air.  Something broken?

But now wasn’t the time to go into that; she needed all of her courage for tomorrow and the days to come.  Wrapping her arms around herself for warmth, she asked: “What should I do?”

“You really want me to tell you that?”

“The commentators used to say that you gave ‘Golden Advice’ and that any tribute who followed it did better than they should have, even if they were ‘just’ from District Twelve,” she said wryly.  “But the one time you started giving us advice, Gaston called it stupid and you just kind of stopped.”

He smiled again.  “I figured you’d ask me when you were ready.”

“I definitely think that I’m ready now,” Belle said with a shaky laugh.  She was so afraid.  How was it that the Capitol saw her as brave?  If any of them looked at her now, they’d see a terrified eighteen year old who wanted nothing more than to stay alive.  She felt like she’d sold a bit of her soul in that interview, like she’d let the Capitol into something that should be private and _hers_ , and Belle felt so dirty for thinking that it would all be worth it if only she could go home.

But here was a man who had.  Gold had won his Games, and had mentored two other victors since then.  And Twelve’s tributes almost _always_ did better than their odds said they would since he’d started mentoring.  He knew what he was talking about, and Belle would take any and all advice that she could get.  _Do the brave thing, and bravery will follow,_ she told herself, but the idea of being brave was so hard to wrap her hands around.  She was going to go into the arena tomorrow with twenty-three other kids, and only one of them was going to come out alive.  _What right to I have to be the one who lives?_

Surprisingly, Gold reached out and squeezed her elbow very briefly.  The contact was unexpected, but welcome; there was something gentle in his touch that she never would have expected.  He let go before speaking, and Belle wished he wouldn’t have.

“Stay smart.  Stay low.  Stay away from the Cornucopia and the bloodbath—run away as fast as you can.  Grab something on the outskirts if you can, but don’t slow down and don’t look back,” he told her.

“I know I’ll die if I go in there, but how do I get supplies or weapons if I run?” Belle asked.  She knew there would be a bow in the Cornucopia since she’d used one in her final session with the gamemakers; her record-high score for Twelve had ensured that they’d put one in there, just to keep things interesting, if nothing else.  But how was she supposed to get it if she did the smart thing and ran away?

“I never said you have to go far,” her mentor replied with a sly smile.  “The careers will go hunting once night falls, and they’ll only leave one of their own behind.  If you have the nerve to do it, you can sneak in and take what you need.  Whoever they leave will be the weakest or the least popular.  If you have to kill them, do it.”

Belle swallowed.  “I’m not sure I can kill,” she admitted in a whisper.

“Victors are all killers, dear.”  Gold’s voice was surprisingly gentle.  “You not killing them won’t make them come home alive; twenty-three kids are dying in there no matter what you do.  You just have to decide if you’re willing to pay the price to come home or not.”

Looking in his brown eyes was almost mesmerizing.  There was a hint of compassion there, but was buried in twenty years’ of steel and death.  Was it brave to kill other children, just to keep her family alive?  She had told Sidney that she would do whatever it took, but…

“I think I am,” Belle answered, and she was ashamed of herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Belle goes into the Games, and Gold plans a revolution.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the cover art on the front page by the amazing Kamden!

**8.**

Rumple had started planning years ago, starting laying out threads and making contacts as soon as he understood what President Blue was most afraid of.  He was patient, though, patient and meticulous, and he knew that one wrong step would cost him more than just his son.  Moving too soon would cost _all_ the victors, as well as the quiet network he was building both within the Capitol and without.  So, he waited and planned, not expecting the girl who would change everything to stumble right into his lap. 

Rumple had always known that the catalyst would have to be a victor, and he’d always known that it wouldn’t be him.  He was too old, too despised (and tolerated with an exasperated sort of disgust) at home.  He’d been too drunk those first two years after Blue sold Bae to Zelena Zephyr and then to Cruella de Vil, when Rumple had just let go and not cared about anyone.  Yet he hadn’t been able to keep that charade up, because he _did_ still care about his son, more than anything in the world, and he had no excuse to be a worthless drunk while Bae had to live there alone.  So, he’d sobered himself up a few years earlier and started planning again, started waiting for the tribute who he knew would come along.  But he’d never thought that it would be one of _his_ tributes.  District Twelve was not the place from which inspiration came.  People pitied Twelve for their underfed tributes and their abject poverty.  The thought that a Seam girl might suddenly grab the nation’s attention never occurred to him, particularly when that rebellious spark came inside such a nice package.

Belle French was pretty and she was innocent; he wrote her off within thirty seconds of watching her be Reaped.  Gaston Rosen was much more promising; somehow, the baker’s eldest son was tall and muscular, topping six feet, and handsome to boot.  Rumple already knew that he’d be able to get Gaston sponsors, particularly if he could get the lad to keep his mouth shut.  He was a bit of an idiot, sure, and didn’t want to listen to Rumple’s advice (always a problem), but he was still more promising than the bookworm.  At least until she opened her mouth.

Within ten terrifying seconds of Belle starting to talk, Rumple realized that he had another thinker.  He didn’t usually get those, not from the beaten down populace of Twelve, but here was another tribute in his own mold, in Bae’s.  Philip had been smart enough, but he’d also been tough and the son of the butcher, able to fight and good with cleavers.  He hadn’t needed his brains to survive the arena, and he’d not been brilliant, anyway.  Belle _was._   She asked smart questions and came to the right conclusions, and she wanted to live.  She absorbed every tip he could give her, and when she quietly admitted that she went hunting with Robin Loxsley and knew how to shoot a bow, Rumple suddenly realized that he had a real contender.  Later, her training score and her interviews only highlighted that fact: she was smart and she was tough, despite the pretty outer package.

Even then, he had no idea what was going to happen until Archie Hopper—the same kind of quiet and unproven first year stylist that Twelve always got—put her in that Girl On Fire getup.  Gaston scowled at the crowd during the chariot ride, but Belle smiled and waved, gracious and gorgeous and _on fire._   The Capitol ate her up, and when she talked with Sidney Glass about how she had volunteered to save her sick best friend and how if she did the brave thing, _bravery would follow_ , the crowd fell in love.  Then she won through just the right combination of brains and skill, sneaking into the Cornucopia that first night when the careers were out and taking food…along with the bow that the One girl had stupidly left behind.  From there on out, the 71st Games were the story of Belle French, who made friends with a girl from District Eleven, tried to protect her and mourned her like they were sisters.  Her tears made every newscast, and so did the way she ruthlessly took out the boy who had killed her friend.

The fact that Belle apologized to even that boy’s dead body was edited out for the reruns, but Rumple saw it in Mentor Central live, just like all his fellow victors did.  More importantly, so did the districts.  _They_ saw Belle whisper an apology to every tribute she killed, and for the first time, someone from ‘just a district’ cared about people from _other_ districts.  Of course, the Capitol didn’t think much of a girl who grieved for those she killed, but he could hear Lancelot’s breath catch from his left, could hear Ursula’s muffled swear.  _This_ was not what they were used to seeing.  Belle was something different.  And even the Capitol celebrated her compassion, despite not understanding its significance.

Still, she was smart enough not to ever be openly defiant in the arena.  Compassionate, yes, but even Blue couldn’t get too angry about that.  _That_ Rumple could write off as her being an emotional girl fighting for her life.  Belle won her Games when she shot the Two boy through the eye, and although she became wildly popular in the Capitol, and even well-liked in the other districts, there was something missing.  She inspired everyone to be better, inspired districts to look at one another with empathy, but that wasn’t quite enough to spark an uprising.  The fury remained simmering under the surface, barely visible, but Rumple knew when he brought her around for her Victory Tour, that Belle was the catalyst.

She might not look it, but this girl with the blue eyes and the too-sweet smile was going to light the world on fire.  Belle was the only tribute to come out of the Games without other districts sullenly hating her for killing their children, and that meant something, even if the Capitol didn’t notice.  The other victors did, and that meant word would spread back home, whether Blue wanted it to or not.  Belle was special.  Rumple knew that from the moment she opened her mouth.

He did not, however, ever expect that he would fall in love with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming next: Gold tells Belle about her future and how Blue sells victors.


	9. Chapter 9

“Did you know she’d win?” Sidney Glass asked Rumple, who was lounging back in the comfortable chair on the stage, pretending for all the world that his mind wasn’t back in the Tribute Center with young Belle French.  She hadn’t been too badly wounded, fortunately, but the cuts from her early encounters had gotten infected, and it was going take a bit of work for the fools in Remake to clear that out.

_Not to mention that they want to make her pretty enough for the cameras again,_ he thought behind a slight smirk.  _Can’t have the Capitol looking at the_ dirty _child they’ve just turned into a killer, after all._  She was underweight, too, after so many weeks in the arena on even less food than Seam kids in Twelve were used to, so the Capitol would try to put some quick fat on her, too, so that she didn’t look like a scrawny scarecrow.  _They need her to be shiny and presentable, lest someone get offended._

_And lest that someone want to pay_ less _for her in the long run._ Rumple couldn’t help the bitterness that came with that thought, but that was also a feeling he’d long been used to, so he gave Sidney a knowing look.

“Of course I did.  What do you take me for, dearie, a simpleton?” he drawled, and the crowd laughed appreciatively.  

“Well, one might be pardoned for thinking you’d lost your touch,” Sidney replied immediately.  “After all, it’s been seven years since Baelfire won, and your tributes have rarely finished better than mid-pack.”

_This isn’t a race we’re talking about, you fool.  They’re starving children, sent to_ die _, and you want me to work miracles?_  Years ago, he might have actually said that.  Now, however, Rumple barely thought it.  _The lucky ones are those who die, anyway,_ he added mentally.  _Belle French is_ not _lucky._

But he shrugged for the cameras, nonchalant and giving away nothing of how passionately he hated them all.  “You can only work with the talent you’re given,” Rumple said casually.  “And you know teenagers—they know _everything_.  Many of them don’t want to listen to what I tell them.”

“You’re kidding.”  The host blinked as the crowd made the appropriate noises of shock; they really were a lot of sheep, and _so_ easily led, weren’t they?  “You have tributes actually _refuse_ to take your Golden Advice?”

“It does happen,” he shrugged again.

“I can hardly believe it!  After all, you’ve now brought home _three_ victors—four if we count yourself—since the Second Quarter Quell.  That’s four in twenty-one years, and for an outlying district, that’s an absolutely _amazing_ record!”  Sidney paused to let the crowd cheer a bit, and then waved them into silence.  “But enough about the past.  Let’s talk about Belle French, our Girl on Fire.  You said you knew she’d win from the beginning.  Tell me why.”

_Careful, Rumple.  Don’t tell them that she’s a thinker; Blue doesn’t want another one of those from District Twelve,_ he told himself, thinking fast.  But he’d already dug himself into this hole with his earlier comment, even if that had only been because he was fulfilling his normally cocky/smarter-than-you persona.  He should have said she’d surprised him, too.  _Too late, now.  Best make her smart but not brilliant.  Let them think it’s all your strategy; it’s safer for her that way._

“Well, for one, she was smarter than Gaston,” he said with a wry smile, and paused for the audience to laugh.  One oughtn’t speak ill of the dead, but after twenty-one years of bringing dead tributes home (thirty-nine of them in Capitol-provided wooden boxes, and then a victor later when Philip got a fancy coffin from the Capitol), he was numb to that.  So Rumple continued easily: “And she was determined.  That really can make a difference, you know.”

“It does often seem that determination wins over talent,” Sidney agreed.

“Well, that’s why it’s the Hunger Games, isn’t it?” Rumple asked, already hating himself for where he was going with this.  _Distract them.  Don’t talk about how smart Belle is.  She’ll need that—you all will—later, and the longer Blue thinks she’s just some stubborn girl, the better._ “If it was _all_ about skill, the inner districts would win every year, and where would the sport in that be?”

He really hoped no one back home was watching this interview.  They all already hated him, but words like that might just get him lynched.  Even if someone from Twelve _should_ have been able to detect the slight hint of sarcasm that sailed right over Capitol heads.

“Right you are!” Sidney grinned.  “So, you’re saying that Belle’s determination won the day?  She turned out to be amazing with a bow, too, so you can hardly say that talent didn’t win this year.”

Rumple gestured dismissively.  “The girl’s got amazing hand-eye coordination.  When you’re naturally gifted like that, you can pick things up quickly.”

“So, she’s determined, naturally gifted, and what else?  Tell us something about the Girl on Fire that only folks from back home in Twelve would know,” was the eager response.

“Honestly, Sidney, I didn’t even know her name before the Games,” he admitted with a soft chuckle, and the audience groaned in disappointment.  “I only met her shortly before you did—on the train ride here.  But I will say that she impressed me right away.  That girl was going _home_.”

“Well, I hope she doesn’t stay home _too_ long, if you know what I mean,” Sidney laughed in response, and the crowd hooted as Rumple’s heart sank.  “I think your young victor is going to prove very popular here in the Capitol!”

_Yeah, and you might even buy her yourself, you bastard,_ Rumple managed not to say, instead throwing a smirk at the crowd.

“Well, color me surprised,” he drawled sarcastically, and they laughed.

The rest of the interview was more of the same, showing highlights of Belle’s Games and asking for Rumple’s ‘expert’ opinion.  He gave it, of course, hating the spotlight and despising this entire charade, but he had a role to play, didn’t he?  He knew exactly what would happen if he tripped up, particularly with the plans he had tucked away.  One misstep and he would ruin them all—Belle included, probably, since the poor girl had just taken the first steps into a game that she would never win.

Finally, the hour-long interview ended, and Rumple managed to get backstage before he could get mobbed by Capitolites who simply _burned_ to touch a victor.  Feeling their hands on his body—even through his expensive and perfectly-tailored suit—always made his skin crawl, and Rumple couldn’t wait to get back to the Twelve apartment and have a stiff drink.  The other victors had all already headed home with their pair of cheap pine coffins, but he was stuck in the Capitol until they finally turned Belle loose.  Hopefully, he could find Bae tonight and they could spend some time together.  He missed his son so badly that it hurt, that it made a hard-bitten victor want to weep, so perhaps there was actually a silver-lining in this mess after all.

He tried to brush by Tink without a word, but she caught his arm.  Years of practice at _not_ attacking Capitolites meant he only glared at her, but Rumple still yanked away as quickly as he could.  Tink wasn’t the worst of the lot, and at least _she_ didn’t buy victors, but she was still one of them.  “What?” he snapped, his pleasant and snarky veneer gone.

“A call came in for you from Victor Affairs,” Tink said quietly, and Rumple’s entire body went tense.  “You’re expected at Mr. Wesselton’s in two hours.”

Great.  He’d trained another victor, and he was popular again.

* * *

 

Belle only needed two days in Remake, which her prep team told her was far less than usual.  Archie, of course, smiled and hugged her, telling her that he’d known she’d win, and for a moment, Belle let herself feel safe in his arms.  After all, she had _won_.  She had killed four other children to do it, but she was going _home._   Surely that had to be worth everything.  She had been brave, and she was a victor, now.  Because of her, Twelve would eat well for a year, and her family—Babette and Webster included—would want for nothing.  She had _done_ it.

Why, then, did Gold look so serious as he jerked his head for Archie to leave?

“Congratulations, Belle,” he said quietly, and there was none of the slight mockery in his voice that she had expected.

Suddenly self-conscious about being dressed only in the weird wrap Archie had put her in, Belle scrambled off the table she’d been sitting on.  “Thank you.”  He said nothing for a moment, so she ventured: “Is something wrong?”

“We need to talk,” her mentor replied, looking away from her to stare at the wall for a moment.  Then his brown eyes found hers again, his gaze direct and almost brutal.  “You have an interview with Sidney Glass this evening.  Tomorrow afternoon, you’ll be crowned, and after that we head home.   But you can expect a private interview with President Blue between those two _lovely_ events.”

There was a warning in the way he drawled that last sentence, and Belle’s senses prickled with danger.  The five weeks she’d spent in the arena had honed those instincts into fine tune, and they were picking up signals now that made Belle’s stomach turn over nervously.  “Why would the president want to see me?”

“She sees all the new victors.”  He seemed to want to say more, but hesitated.  Belle had never seen Gold hesitate before.

“Oh,” she said quietly, unable to imagine how a victor was important enough to waste President Blue’s time in a private audience.

“There’s no easy way to tell you this, dear, so I’ll just spit it out,” Gold said abruptly.  “Blue’s going to tell you the way things work from here on out.  You’re a beautiful and popular victor.  People from the Capitol are going to want to be seen with you, to be _with_ you.  You’ll be expected to go where you’re told, to go with whom you’re told, and to please them in whatever way they desire.  That includes sexually.”

For a long moment, Belle had no idea what she had just heard.  She simply stared at Gold uncomprehendingly, blinking stupidly and wondering when the world had turned upside down.  Surely this was a dream.  A horrible dream.  She knew that victors were popular in the Capitol, and many of them seemed to take lovers here.  But surely that was all it was.  Gold had to be joking.  Didn’t he?

“What…did you say?” she finally whispered when it became evident that he was waiting for an answer.

“I said that the Office of Victor Affairs will sell you like a whore, and you’ll be expected to comply,” he replied, his voice hard.

“What?  _No!_   I can’t—”

Suddenly, his hands were on her arms, and thirty-four days in the arena made Belle fight the surprisingly gentle grip.  Still, Gold managed to force her back into a sitting position, and then it was the look on his face—deadly serious and somewhat sad—that made her go still.

“You can and you will,” the other victor told her bluntly.  “Because if you don’t, it’s not you who will suffer.  Blue will tell you this, but so will I.  If you don’t do what you’re told, sleep with who you’re told, and make them _like_ it, Blue will kill your family.  One by one.”

“But she can’t…”

Belle couldn’t even continue that sentence.  She knew that the president _could_.

“Don’t try to say no.  Other victors have, and their friends and families have died for it.  Abigail’s family didn’t die in an accidental electrical fire.  She tried to say _no._   Just like Eric tried to resist a patron’s advances, and so his sister was Reaped the next year, only to be torn apart in by a mutt that _only_ wanted to eat her.  Mulan’s girlfriend ‘committed suicide’ three years after Mulan won because one of Mulan’s top clients felt that she was too _distracted_ by loving someone else.  The list goes on, dearie.  Do you want me to continue?”

Horrified, Belle just gaped.  She wanted to vomit, but there wasn’t enough food in her stomach to do so.  She just stared at Gold, broken and suddenly realizing why he’d looked at her so sadly when he walked in. 

“What do I do?” she finally whispered.

“You do as you’re told and you keep your family safe.  However you have to,” he answered tightly.  The hands on her arms loosened, and now his touch was almost comforting.  “This is the price for winning.  The one no one tells us before we go in the arena, and the one you can’t tell _anyone_ about.”

The implication there was clear, but Belle needed to hear it.  “Will the president hurt them if they know?”

“Oh, yes.  If they’re lucky.”

That was when Belle finally understood that the lucky tributes died in the arena.  Later, she’d meet her fellow victor-whores, would share stories with them, commiserate with them, and find solace amongst the only people who could possibly understand.  But first she had to face a year at home with this knowledge, being unable to tell her family why ‘victory’ was no prize.  Survival, Gold had called it. 

Sometimes she thought it was barely that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Belle meets her first client.
> 
> Also, if you haven't seen it already, check out [The Beast in Gold](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4135407) by unknowntrombone. It's set in the same universe as this story, and it's amazing!


	10. Chapter 10

Her first client was the Minister of Finance, Parvus Farquaad.  Despite what Rumple told her, she didn’t quite understand why he’d winced when he’d heard that, or why he’d warned her that Farquaad liked scared young virgins and liked to hurt them.  Belle had thought she’d known what she was getting into, at least in theory, but they’d caught her by surprise the night after she was crowned.  Most victors got to go home straightaway, but Belle had been told that there was some technical difficultly with the train that was going to take her back to Twelve, and receiving an invitation to a party didn’t seem too bad.  Yeah, Capitol parties were overwhelming, full of excesses and people cooing over the fact that she’d _killed_ four other children, but she’d learned long ago to put a smile on her face when she felt like crying.  Kids learned that back home early on.

When Rumple told her flat out that she’d be expected to yield up her virginity at said party, Belle thought he was telling a very sick joke.  The half-devastated, half-furious look on his face, however, told her otherwise.  He told her that he hadn’t expected this to happen at least until her Victory Tour, and that if the other victors hadn’t left the Capitol already, he would have tried to find one of the younger men (nicer and gentler than he, Rumple implied) to help her learn about sex in a much safer way, but as it was, no one left them alone for even that conversation to be finished.  Looking apologetic, Tink interfered and told Gold that he was expected by Glinda Goodwin to discuss Belle’s future, and that Belle’s prep team was waiting for her.

Parvus Farquaad turned out to be worse than Belle could ever have expected, particularly when her _appointment_ with him was preceded by a very cold conversation with President Blue, who told her quite calmly that if she failed to cooperate or please Minister Farquaad (or anyone else that Ms. Goodwin assigned her to), her father and her brother would die.  Shocked, she tried to protest, but she just shrugged.  Oh, and that friend who she had volunteered for?  If she persisted in this unsuitable defiance, Babette Thompson and her little brother would suffer, too.  Babette was a few months younger than Belle, after all, and she had one last Reaping before she was free.

In the end, pleasing Minister Farquaad was rather easy.  He just wanted to hurt her and watch her cry.

* * *

 

He’d never expected it to happen so quickly.  They’d received word that the train was “delayed” about a minute before the invitation to Farquaad’s gala arrived. Coming straight from the Office of Victor Affairs as it did, Rumple knew exactly what it meant, and although it made him sick to think of it, he grabbed his young victor by the arm and hauled her into her room.  She almost took a swing at him, fresh from the arena as she was, but that was the least of his concerns.  So, he’d told Belle the truth as quickly as he could, trying not to mince words no matter how much he hated explaining this to her.  At least Farquaad wasn’t one of the kinky ones, and he wasn’t one who liked hurting people overmuch.  He just wanted to see virgins cry, and paid good money for it, too.

Farquaad was only into women, an exclusivity that most Capitolites didn’t share, and that meant Rumple only knew him by reputation.  But he knew that Farquaad had narrowly bid out Minister Potts for Ruby last year, only to find out that she wasn’t exactly your typical virgin, being from One.  Ruby knew plenty of tricks, and hadn’t been the crying sort, which hadn’t pleased the good Minister one bit.  Now, he was probably doubly eager to get to a girl from the outlying districts.  Unlike the chosen volunteers from One, no outlying district girl would ever risk getting pregnant while they could still be Reaped, and they couldn’t afford contraceptives of any sort.  So, Belle was a definite virgin, though Rumple had hoped like crazy to fix that problem before she was ever up for sale.  The last thing he wanted for her was for her first time to be like this, and since Blue hadn’t flat out told him not to, Rumple had already spoken to David, who had already agreed to help Belle out before the next year’s Games even started.

Unfortunately, Blue had gotten the jump on him, and twice now, too.  He barely had time to tell Belle what would be expected when Tink came in with a worried look on her face, telling him that he was expected over in Ms. Goodwin’s office right away.  That meant he lacked enough time to really warn Belle about what was coming.  He could only collect her from Farquaad’s mansion after their time was up, wrapping an arm around her as the brave girl tried not to cry.  Rumple wasn’t someone who was comfortable with genuine affection—not after twenty years of being a victor—but he knew that Belle needed someone, and he’d failed to properly warn her.

He helped her into the shower and then sent her to bed with sleeping pills, knowing he would have to explain this on the train the next morning and dreading every moment of that conversation to come.

In the end, Belle took it rather better than he had expected.  She demanded answers before she’d even take the sleeping pills, but she squared her shoulders, pushed back the heartbreak, and _listened._ She went pale, and her eyes went wide, but when Rumple reminded her bluntly that her family would suffer if she didn’t comply, Belle nodded shakily and just asked: “Does this happen to everyone?”

“More or less.  Or at least to the popular and good looking victors,” he replied, having to look away as he thought of his son, whose contract had been bought out _again_ just a few months before the Games.  Now Bae was the sex slave of a third Capitol woman, and not being able to do anything for him still burned.  They’d barely seen one another this year, though Bae had at least been able to drop by Mentor Central for a few hours.  His intention had been to give his father a chance to nap, but Rumple had gone after sponsors instead, and then spent the rest of those precious minutes with his only child.

He was _still_ strung out from lack of sleep, but it had been worth every moment.  _She deserves better,_ Rumple thought to himself, swallowing even as Belle assimilated what he’d said.  She looked so small sitting there on the big Capitol bed, and _so_ very young.

“For how long?  Forever?” Belle whispered in a tiny voice.  Her face was red and splotchy, but she was obviously determined not to cry any more tonight.

At least that was something he could reassure her on.  “Oh, no.  The Capitol likes its whores young and pretty.”  He’d said the same thing to Bae once, seven years earlier.  Now his voice went sharp and he twirled a hand with flippant anger.  “They’ll get sick of you eventually.  You’ll become old news.”

Most of them did, anyway. 

Belle, however, seemed to sense that there was something more he wasn’t saying, so Rumple continued quickly, keeping his voice softer and more controlled.  “Most victors hold the Capitol’s attention for a year or two at most. If you’re lucky, you’ll be one of those.  Even if you aren’t, twenty-five is usually as old as the customers care to purchase you.”

“Oh.  That’s a long way away,” she whispered, and he imagined that, at eighteen, it was.

Rumple reached out and took her hand, squeezing gently.  He remembered what it was like, burning for some human contact after that first time, terrified of it, and needing someone.  Zoso hadn’t done a damn thing for him other than put him on the train by himself, so now Rumple looked into those startled eyes and tried to smile for her.  He wasn’t a good man, not really and not anymore, but he could help her in the ways he’d always wished someone would have helped him.

“I’ll teach you what you need to know,” he promised.  “I can’t say it will be easy, or that you’ll ever like it, but it will keep your family safe.”

“All right,” Belle nodded, and even then he was impressed by her strength.

        

* * *

 

Contrary to her reputation, the Girl on Fire didn’t seem to be one that would be a problem.  She’d gone to pieces quickly enough, crying as Farquaad tied her down and raped her, all uncertainties and no defiant fire at all.  Blue turned off the video feed with a satisfied smile; Belle French had been a potential thorn in her side, but that potential seemed to have come to nothing.  Even though her mentor remained the most troublesome of all the victors—she would have to deal with him next year, because Rumple Gold had received an unexpected reprieve when his pretty little female tribute won the Games.  _He’ll be insufferable next year,_ she thought clinically, drumming her fingers lightly on her mahogany desktop.  _I’ll have to speak to Glinda about where he will be sent first.  He’ll have to be reminded._

It was a distasteful business, dealing with the more troublesome victors.  Blue often wished she could simply dispose of them, but killing victors was difficult.  To most of the public, they were dashing heroes, more glamorous than any movie star and twice as desirable.  To the president, of course, they were an unavoidable problem.  They _knew_ one another, after all, and were potential connections between the districts of Panem that she worked so very hard to keep separate.  The Capitol’s strength lay in its technology and in the fact that the districts would never be allowed to unite, and Blue knew better than anyone that the victors _could_ destroy the latter.  She would not let them, of course, and was very glad that her predecessor, President Issac had developed this system.

Usually, a year or two of being sold put a victor neatly in their place.  Most acquiesced gracefully enough, and the less desirable ones were always grateful when they escaped what the Office of Victor Affairs delicately called ‘the circuit’.  The Career Victors, of course, were always the easiest; they knew that their job was to please the Capitol, and Blue was always quick to make sure they understood how she valued their loyalty.  The victors from the inner districts, the favored districts, rarely received the type of treatment she was happy to send the way of the lesser victors. 

Rumple Gold was a good example of one who required constant attention, constant _reminding._ Had she known what type of man the cocky sixteen year old from Twelve would become, Blue would never have let him win the 50th Games, but she had to admit that he had taken her by surprise.  Fortunately, there was already a system in place to deal with victors like him.  And the system was useful on so many fronts.  Selling victors was not about the _money_ , after all; Blue was not so crass.  No, it was about power, and always would be.  Power over both the victors and over the Capitol itself.

After all, by selling victors, Blue kept the less savory types in the Capitol sated, and thus kept them from hurting good and productive members of society.  Of course, the fact that it also kept the victors in line was equally important.  They were more of a danger to her powerbase than anyone in the Capitol—because she _knew_ the vices of every important Capitolite and knew how to control them—but keeping the victors frightened for their own safety (and that of their families) kept them neatly in line. 

So what if they were hurt?  The victors who chose to be loyal and behave were not hurt nearly so badly; they were never sold to the worst patrons, to the ones who wanted to make them bleed and scream.  Those types of patrons were regretfully necessary, but _all_ the victors knew that compliance meant they would not get hurt nearly as badly.  The ones who were continuously treated like the barbarians they acted as were the ones who deserved it.  They knew the rules; she made sure of that, just as she had made sure young Belle French understood as well.  _No, that girl will not be a problem.  She might even become another means by which to control Gold, if they get on well enough,_ the president thought to herself, leaning back thoughtfully.

Yes, the system of selling victors might be distasteful, but the morality of the situation was definitely on her side.  She was acting for the greater good, acting to preserve the very fabric of Panem.  Because of that, Blue had no interest in discouraging the bloodthirsty from buying her victors, or those with special _desires._ Firstly, the money was always welcome, because remaining in power in the Capitol was prohibitively expensive.  Secondly, and far more importantly, she knew every vice of every important Capitolite, and _she_ was the one who catered to them.  None of them could fulfill their habits without going through her office, and they knew that.  It was ammunition for later, if need be, or she could simply dangle goodies in front of them to get what she wanted at _any_ time, because she determined if their desires were fulfilled or not.

Most importantly, selling victors kept the Capitol from ever seeing them as equals, which was the last thing she wanted.  As far as the Capitol was concerned, the people in the districts were not _people._   They were unimportant and uncouth barbarians, save for the lucky child chosen each year to be bettered.  She couldn’t afford to let the Capitolites ever view the victors, or their friends and families, as people.  They were _just_ from the districts.  Not people.  Not worthy of respect or assistance.  Hurting them did not matter.

Hurting them was even _encouraged_.  Blue needed things to remain that way, or else the entire system might crumble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! Vacation, real life, and all that got in the way. Coming next: Belle demands answers and then the victors return home to District Twelve.


	11. Chapter 11

Belle didn’t remember the trip to the train early the next morning, only that Gold’s arm around her on the way kept her grounded.  The first she really came back to herself was when the train started moving; only then did sanity really break through her haze.  Maybe it was the sleeping pills or maybe it was just the trauma; Belle wasn’t sure.  She’d thought the Games were bad, but having to _give_ herself to that Capitolite still burned.  She’d never felt so helpless, not even when she’d been thrown into the arena with twenty-three other kids.  At least there, she’d had a chance to fight.  But not with Minister Farquaad.  She’d had to _let_ him rape her…or else her family would suffer.  And now she wasn’t sure if she hated herself or not.

_Be brave,_ Belle told herself firmly, turning to look out the window as the scenery whipped by.  She was a victor now.  That had to count for something, didn’t it?

_I’m a victor, but I don’t even understand what that means,_ she realized, turning away from the window and squaring her shoulders.  Gold was sitting across from her in the last car of the train, staring out the opposite window with a contemplative look on his face.  He’d dropped his jacket on the floor next to himself, and he looked more relaxed than Belle had seen him since they’d left for the Capitol.  Or perhaps more relaxed than she’d _ever_ seen him, excepting the few times she’d seen him falling down drunk.  A surge of irrational anger rolled through her, looking at him sprawled on the long seat with his legs stretched out.  How could he sit there like that after what had been done to her?  How could Gold act like this didn’t _matter_?  She wanted to scream at him, but then she remembered:

_“Does this happen to everyone?” she’d asked, trying to gather information so that she could ignore the crippling feelings of shame and pain._

_“More or less.  Or at least to the popular and good looking victors,” Gold replied, and his voice wasn’t dispassionate.  It was tight and a little resigned, but there was a slight shadow of anger behind the easy answer._

She wasn’t special.  She wasn’t unique.  This happened to _most_ victors.  Had it been happening for the last seventy-one years?  Belle needed more information before she started jumping to conclusions.

“Can I ask you some questions?” The words crept out before Belle fully decided upon speaking, and then she swallowed hard upon hearing how wounded and small her voice sounded.

Gold’s head whipped around to face her, and for a moment, Belle thought she saw fury in his eyes, but the emotion didn’t seem to be aimed at her.  “Of course you can,” he replied.

Belle bit her lip, forcing aside the memory of Farquaad’s hands on her, of him forcing his way into her body, of crying and shuddering and desperately wishing for it to be— _No,_ she told herself firmly.  _Not now.  You’re stronger than this._   She hoped that Gold couldn’t see how torn up she was.  He’d believed in her and helped her through the Games.  He’d helped her with well-timed sponsor gifts, knowing exactly what she needed when she needed it—including that net that she hadn’t known she would even _use_ until the day after it showed up.  His advice had saved her in the arena.  Without him, Belle would never have come out alive.  _Would that have been better than facing a few years of being sold off like some prostitute?_ she wondered, but no matter how horrible Belle felt inside, she still didn’t want to die.

_This is the price for survival,_ Gold had said.  He’d won over twenty years ago.  If anyone had the answers, he did.  Belle swallowed again.

“I, uh…”  Stopping, she shook her head desperately to clear it.  Focus.  She had to focus.  “You said this happens to most victors.  Why?  Why would the president do this to us?”

“Because she _can_ ,” he said darkly.  “Because it keeps victors in line.”

“I don’t understand.  What is it supposed to be keeping us from doing?”

“Anything the Capitol doesn’t want us to do.”  Gold shrugged, his eyes going distant for a moment.  “The ‘why’ doesn’t matter, Belle.  And asking that won’t help you.  It’ll only make things hurt worse.”

“Then what will help?  Lying back and taking it?” she snapped before she could stop herself.  Then Belle winced.  “I’m sorry.  You didn’t deserve that.”

“It’s not about deserving.  Because you don’t deserve this, Belle.”  Moving slowly, Gold moved over to sit on the plush bench seat next to Belle.  He didn’t touch her, but Belle wished he would, wished he’d reach out and wrap an arm around her again like he had when she’d been so broken and terrified after Farquaad finished with her.  “Whatever they do to you, never let yourself believe that.  If you do, this will break you.”

She swallowed.  “Then what should I do?”

“Take it one step at a time.  Endure.  It gets…easier with time,” he replied awkwardly, and Belle could hear his voice catch slightly.  “We’ll help.  The rest of the victors.”

“You said this…this happens to almost everyone?”

“Pretty much.”

“Does the entire Capitol know?” Belle _needed_ to hear the answer to that one.

Gold snorted. “Oh, no.  To most Capitolites, we’re their darlings.  More famous than star actors, glamorous, and completely untouchable.  Only the so-called elite buy us, dear.  The rest of them are clueless sheep.”

“Farquaad told me I was his plaything.  That I was nothing more than a toy,” she whispered, shivering.  She had to look away, remembering the heavy body of a man on top of her while she cried out in pain, tied down and feeling so afraid.

“That’s what they’ll want you to be, yes.”  Now Gold did touch her, with gentle fingers barely making contact with her left elbow.  “But that’s not what you are.  You’ll learn to say what you have to and _be_ what you have to in order to survive, but never believe that you’re just their toy.  You understand?”

Nodding, Belle tried to resist the urge to lean into the older man who had somehow become her lifeline.  What would she have done if he hadn’t come to get her from the bedroom they’d locked her in with Farquaad?  Belle didn’t know how this worked, didn’t know to deal, and now her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.  “I—” she cut off with a gulp.

“Come here,” Gold said softly, and then there was an arm wrapped around her shoulders, tenderly pulling her close. 

The tears started before Belle even gave herself permission to cry, and somehow her head wound up buried against his shoulder and her body shaking with sobs.  For a moment, she was terrified that would make Gold—reserved, bitter, and sarcastic Gold—pull away, but his arms wrapped around her while Belle cried.  She didn’t know how long she cried for, only that Gold just held her, letting her sob out the pain until her tears dried out.  But even once she’d run out of tears, Belle couldn’t stop shaking.

And Gold just held her while she did.

* * *

 

Coming home was something out of a nightmare.  Or a dream.  There were crowds there to meet them as they got off the train, and Belle had somehow managed to pull herself together enough to look presentable.  Tink had looked at her with a strange mix of concern and pity that almost made Belle scream at her, but Gold intervened with what could only be practiced ease by dropping his suit jacket on the floor again, which made their escort go off on one of her patented tirades about how he didn’t appreciate nice things.  Tink seemed genuinely flustered that Gold would treat expensive clothing like that, but Belle thought she saw something else in the green-clad Capitolite’s eyes.  _Ask later,_ she told herself, not sure she was up to having a serious conversation with Tink.  _Maybe next year._

Soon enough, however, she was stepping off the train and into a crowd—and only Gold’s gentle hand between her shoulder blades kept her from running away.  Every instinct in Belle’s body told her to flee, told her the crowd was _dangerous_ and someone, _anyone_ was going to try to kill her.  Intellectually, she knew that probably wasn’t going to happen, not in Twelve, but she burned for a bow or a knife or something with which to defend herself.  But she had nothing; weapons weren’t allowed in the districts, and the bow Robin had lent her years ago was safely tucked away in the woods.  All she had was the gentle touch of Gold’s palm against her back, the feeling of which was somehow reassuring despite how little she knew the man. 

_We’re both victors,_ she realized, looking out at the cheering crowd, spotting her delighted father and a beaming Babette.  _No one else understands, do they_?

If they understood, they wouldn’t have been cheering.  Her father would not have embraced her so jovially and everyone wouldn’t have been acting like this was some holiday.  Two days earlier, she’d been tied to a bed and _raped_ by a rich cabinet minister.  Now she was expected to act like nothing was wrong and pretend to be _glad_.  Gold’s quietly hovering presence, at least, told her that he understood, just like the way he’d held her and let her cry on the train.  But none of the others did.  They _couldn’t_ …and she couldn’t tell them.  So, Belle squared her shoulders, put on her best smile, and pretended to be happy.  _I might as well get used to doing that,_ she thought behind a cheerful façade. 

“I knew you could do it, my girl,” her father said, grinning hugely.

“Thanks, Pa,” she replied as lightly as she could, remembering their goodbyes and how her father hadn’t been nearly that confident then. 

_“Promise me you’ll look after Babette and Webster,” she’d begged him, holding onto both of his hands for dear life.  Belle hadn’t thought much before she volunteered; she’d just acted on instinct.  Now she was more terrified than she’d ever been in her life, including that night she and Robin had gotten stuck outside the fence, thinking they’d never make it home._

_“Sweetheart, we don’t have enough.  We’re barely making it on our own, and now that you’ve done this for her, we don’t have_ any _obligation to—”_

_“Babette didn’t ask me to volunteer!” Belle had cut him off in a snarl.  “I did because she’s my friend, and because I have a far better chance of coming home than she ever would!”_

_“I hope you’re right,” Moe had said morosely_ …and part of Belle wanted to remind him of that now.  Right when he was so focused on telling her how very much he’d believed in her and how he wasn’t surprised at all.  Had she left the kind girl she used to be in the Capitol?  She’d become a _killer_ , and somehow that had gotten lost underneath what Farquaad had done to her.

“We were brought up to the new house yesterday, and Alan moved all your belongings over already,” Maurice told her next, wrapping an arm around Belle and towing her along.

“Did you move Babette and Webster in, too?” she asked as innocently as she could, even though she already knew the answer.

Maurice stopped cold, blinking.  “Why would we bring them?”

“They’re going to live with us, Papa,” Belle said firmly.  “It’s my house, and Babette is family to _me_.  I want her there, and Webster, too.”

“Belle…”

“Humor me, please?” she gave him her most pleading look, and just as Belle knew he would, her father gave in.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he relented with a smile.  “We got you back.  I can’t refuse you anything.”

“Thank you,” now her smile actually felt a little natural.  Belle knew she couldn’t save everyone, but maybe her victory _could_ be a good thing.  She’d been focusing on the terrible aspects of victory, on having killed and being sold like a whore.  But she had money, now.  She was _rich_.  She was one of the two—or technically, three—richest people in the entire district.  Maybe she could help people.  Maybe she could make a difference.

That thought helped her on the way home, saw her through a tour of her new home and reuniting with all of her friends.  None of them mentioned Gaston, for which Belle was very grateful, but she did make time to go talk to his parents and express her regrets. Gaston had been a bit of a prat, but he’d still been someone she knew, and he hadn’t been a bad person.  The bakers were kind, if sad, and Belle made herself a silent promise to look after them as much as she could.  _It’s the least I could do.  Gaston tried to look after me, even if I didn’t like the way he wanted to go about it,_ she thought. 

Belle had lived.  She had killed four other children to come home.  There had to be a way to make their deaths worthwhile.  There had to be a way to honor them.  There were lots of people she could help, and that could keep her busy.  The Capitol might think her a celebrity, and some of them might want to buy her, but Belle would be _Belle._   She wouldn’t let them take that from her.  She was going to do something right with her life, and that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Belle tries to cope with her new life, and finally turns to Gold for someone who understands.


	12. Chapter 12

As Belle moved into her new house—next door to his, since Philip’s abandoned home and the one Bae had never lived in stood empty across the street—Rumple returned to his empty and quiet existence.  Usually, he greeted his return from the Games with a good, long session of drunkenness, self-medicating in the only way he knew to make the nightmares and humiliation dim.  At least he didn’t _stay_ drunk these days; no, he allowed himself one night of drinking himself stupid before bulling his way through the hangover and then making himself stop.  But it was the only way he knew how to deal with bringing home two caskets to two mourning families, the only way he knew how to endure their glares and their derision while he was falling to pieces inside.  Oh, he was very practiced at separating his emotions (unreliable, unstable, and broken as they were) from his intellect; Rumple Gold was an expert at compartmentalizing.  Sometimes, however, doing so in the silence of his empty home was impossible.

Bae should have been here.  His son had now ‘lived’ in the Capitol for four years, and Rumple’s life was utterly empty with him gone.  For a few foolish moments, he’d dared to hope that having another victor in the district might make things a little better, but that was an idiot’s dream.  Belle was likely burying herself back in her family, her old friends, and dealing with the horrors of being a victor in a better way than he ever had.  She was strong, that girl was, and he’d given her all the help he could.  He had no right to expect her to give a damn about a man who was nineteen years older than her.  He had won the Games before she’d even been born, after all, and had been the district pariah for her entire life.

No, hoping was foolish.  Better he accept his lonely life for what it had always been, and drink himself insensible when _hope_ tried to intervene.

At least this year had been better on a personal front.  He’d brought only one casket home, and had somehow managed to save this extraordinary girl who could touch even _his_ worn-out heart.  Even his clients had had to leave him alone once the Games started, and although Rumple knew that would mean most of them would only be chomping harder at the bit next year, it was still nice to have a respite.  And he’d been able to see Bae a little more than usual, been able to spend some time with his precious son.  All in all, it had been a good year.  Or at least as good as any year at the Hunger Games ever _could_ be.

Yet here he was, sitting in his empty living room and flipping idly through the Capitol-provided television channels, and finally stopping on some idiot documentary on the rise of Panem.  It was probably 95% lies and 5% twisted truths, but given how his own mind worked, the show actually could be an interesting intellectual exercise.  _It’s not like I have anything better to do_ , he thought with a sigh.  He was back ‘home’, after all, away from his beloved son and the only friends he had—and in order to see _them_ , he had to go to the place he hated most. 

No, this was not the life he’d dreamt of on the train ride back after his own Games, high on victory and certain that he could change things for the better.  Now, he was just broken and lonely.  But at least his scotch was good.

* * *

 

A week after she got home—a week of listening to excited congratulations, of pretending to be happy and excited for her family’s sake—Belle was ready to go mad.  Sometimes she jumped when someone touched her, and when Thomas approached her to ask a question for Ella, Belle found herself wanting a knife to stab him.  He didn’t even _look_ like the District One boy from her games, but somehow his mannerisms reminded Belle of the boy who had killed Rapunzel, and rage had almost consumed her.  She’d managed to excuse herself, but her father had noticed something was wrong, and Belle found herself stumbling through a mostly-true explanation about how she still hadn’t gotten over having killed other children.

Far worse, however, was the day that their Head Peacekeeper, Keith Nottingham, had come over to her, leering and winking and hinting that if she didn’t find those spineless district boys good enough for her, she could always come to him for something better.  The hungry look in his eyes had reminded her vividly of Minister Farquaad, and Belle had just barely managed to flee before she started looking for a way to kill the Head Peacekeeper.  She was pretty sure that even a victor couldn’t survive doing that, but the way he’d looked at her had made her want to run away screaming or find an arrow to shoot through his heart.  Neither was an option, however, and this time she found herself flat out lying to her father instead of telling the truth.  He wouldn’t understand, Belle knew.  If she told him that she’d been forced to give up her virginity to a disgustingly tattooed Capitolite who tied her to the bed, Moe would want justice.

Justice.  The mere thought made her want to giggle insanely.  By the time she saw two kids throwing rocks at Gold’s windows, she had realized that _justice_ was just a word the Capitol threw about to justify whatever the government wanted to do.  What had Gold said?  _“The ‘why’ doesn’t matter.  And asking that won’t help you.  It’ll only make things hurt worse.”_   Just a week into her new ‘improved’ life, she understood that all too well.  So, Belle chased the kids off, not wanting to listen to them calling her mentor—the man who had been kind to her when no one else understood, whose advice had gotten her out of the arena and through being raped—a useless drunk, and tentatively went to knock on the door.

Gold opened it quickly enough that he must have been watching the kids…yet doing nothing.  _How curious._ Why wouldn’t he chase them away when they’d been throwing rocks at his house?  Yet he’d never seemed to protest when the citizens of Twelve put him down, never seemed to care.  He just _took_ it, accepted the abuse like he deserved it.  Even though Belle had seenhim act differently, had seen Gold refusing to back down to Gaston (or anyone else), had seen him taking control of the situation and absolutely brilliant.  No one here saw that side of him here, though, did they?  They just saw a man who brought their children home in caskets.  Now, however, he just blinked upon seeing her, brown eyes wide.

“Belle,” he said with surprise.  “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I was walking by,” she admitted with a shrug, suddenly feeling self-conscious.  She hadn’t seen him in over a week, yet this was the man who had held her together on the train, who had made her feel safe in those first terrifying moments when they’d come home.  Belle felt guilty for not bothering to come by since their return; she’d thought about doing so more than once, but Belle had been so busy that doing so had sort of slipped her mind.

That, and she didn’t know how to lean on him more than she already had.  Gold didn’t deserve to have to prop her up; he had helped her win, helped her come home.  Could she really lean on him _more_?  Belle didn’t think she had a right to do that. 

“Are you going to keep walking, or do you want to come in?” Gold replied, and yet again Belle felt like he was able to see right into her soul.

“Do you mind?” she found herself asking, the feeling of the world pressing in just too much to bear.  She’d been pretending to be all right for too long; was this somewhere she could stop?

“Not at all.”  Stepping aside, he gestured her forward, the motion studiously casual.  “Come on in.”

“Thanks,” Belle said quietly, walking into the house.  On first glance, it was identical to the one she had moved into next door, though upon second glance, she could see different colors on the walls and different upholstery on the furniture, but everything else seemed to be much the same.  Were all the houses like this?  As far as Belle knew, only three of the houses in Victor’s Village had ever been lived in at all, unless Baelfire had ever lived in his.  She was pretty sure that he’d lived here until he moved to the Capitol.  _I need to ask about that,_ Belle thought to herself, not knowing why Gold—who seemed unhappy with the way victors were treated in the Capitol—would allow his only son to move there.  _And to take a string of Capitolites as lovers,_ she recalled.  _Unless…?_

“Starting to have a hard time pretending you’re the same as you’ve always been?” Gold’s quiet voice startled her as the door clicked shut behind Belle, and she spun to face him.  Instinct made her want to grab a weapon, but people weren’t allowed to own weapons in the districts.  Belle’s hands grasped at thin air for several seconds as she yearned for something, _anything_ , with which to defend herself, but there was nothing.  Everything she had was hidden out in the woods, and technically belonged to Robin, anyway. 

The urge didn’t pass, but she managed to get a grip on herself after a moment.  Mostly.

“Yeah,” she whispered, the answer to his question escaping almost before she could think about speaking.  Then she bit her lip, determined to keep the pain and the loneliness inside.

“I’m guessing you didn’t come by for a drink,” he replied dryly.

“Does it help?” Belle found herself asking.

“Not really.  Or at least not for long,” Gold answered, leading her into the living room, where the television was showing some weird Capitol special about tailoring.  He muted the television—the same high priced model that lived in her home—and gestured her into a seat. 

After thinking about it for a moment, Belle chose to sit on the couch next to him instead of in one of the chairs.  She hated people here in Twelve touching her without permission—even her father, who had been prone to hugging her without notice until Belle had accidentally slammed him into a wall two days earlier—but Gold was different.  Gold understood.

“Then why do you do it?” she wondered quietly.

“Get drunk?  I don’t, or at least not terribly often these days.”

Belle knew that the look she threw him was somewhat doubtful, but she’d spent her entire life listening to people call Gold a useless drunk.  Of course, she’d seen differently in the Capitol, where he’d seemed sober enough (despite the drinks she saw him have with dinner each night) and had certainly been use _ful_ , but here at home, Belle had expected him to resume drinking with a vengeance.  After all, she could certainly understand the need to crawl into a bottle, assuming that could blot out some of the nightmares or the terror.

Gold only snorted.  “I spent a few years as the drunken horror everyone still thinks I am,” he replied wryly.  “But it didn’t help, and in the end…well, let’s just say I decided not to do that anymore.”

“Why not?”  _And why did you do it at all?_

“Because it wasn’t worth it,” he replied bluntly, and Belle sensed a thousand other answers behind the suddenly sad brown eyes.

“Oh.”

They sat in silence for a long moment after that, staring at the muted television.  Yet it was a more comfortable silence than Belle was used to; she had felt so out of place in Twelve since getting back, and not only because of what Minister Farquaad had done to her.  No one here _understood_ ; they all thought she should be just fine and normal despite having been locked in a kill-or-be-killed arena for five weeks.  They all expected her to be the same she’d always been—or to be drunk, which was a little surprising—and none of them thought to think why she wouldn’t have been just fine.

No one except the man sitting across from her, who had made her feel safe when Belle felt like the world had ended.

“How do you do it?” she asked in a rush.  “How do you deal with the way they look at you?  They think you’re some idiot drunk—which you _aren’t_ —and they think I’m supposed to be some sweet little girl.  And I’m not.  Not anymore.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, dear,” he said, and Belle finally looked over at him, not sure how to handle the fact that he wasn’t lying to her.  He wasn’t saying she hadn’t changed.  _He understood._   “You’re a better person than usually comes out of the Games.  Certainly better than I’ve ever been.”

“Don’t say that,” Belle replied automatically.

Gold laughed bitterly.  “Ah, it’s true.  There’s no need to lie about it.  I was a messed up kid going into the Games, and I felt a lot less remorse than you do.  Still, I didn’t know how to deal with the aftermath any better than you do.”

“Did everyone treat you so badly in the beginning?” she wondered.  “Or did this, um, happen over time?”

“It’s a recent phenomenon, believe it or not.  Probably my own fault.  I did spent nineteen months spectacularly drunk, after all.  I brought it down upon myself.”

“Then why’d you do that?”

“My son,” Gold replied quietly, his eyes flicking away from hers and filling with pain.  “He…moved to the Capitol.”

“That wasn’t his choice, was it?” Belle asked, remembering her earlier realization.  “Or yours.”

“No.  It wasn’t.”

She wanted to reach out and touch his arm, but she wasn’t sure that would be welcome, so Belle only asked: “Will you tell me what happened?”

“Someday, certainly.  But not now.  Now you have enough other problems to deal with,” he answered bluntly.

“I’d rather think about anything else,” she admitted.

He snorted.  “Wouldn’t we all?”  Gold turned to look at her again, and Belle felt like he could see right through her fragile strength.  “You’re having problems re-integrating.  What do you want to know?”

“What do I _need_ to know?” she countered, and saw a slight smile crease his face.

“Good.  You’re still smart.  That means you haven’t shut down, and you’ll need that brain of yours, no matter how much worse it makes things, sometimes,” he replied, and Belle could hear the man who had been her mentor reemerging from his sadness. 

“I don’t think I can afford to shut down.  Can I?”

“Some do,” he shrugged.  “Silvermist, from Six, did.  Others, like Lizard—she’s from Eight, and you’ll meet her next year—cope by trying to please everyone.  Victors from Two tend to look at this as their duty, and those from One try to outdo them in every way.  Mainly, though, we all just do what we have to do.”

“Tell me what to do,” Belle whispered, needing answers.

“Treasure your time at home,” Gold replied.  “Your family won’t understand, but that doesn’t mean they love you any less.”

“I know, I just…”

“It’s hard,” he finished for her, and Belle nodded numbly. 

“I keep wanting to grab a weapon when they touch me,” she whispered.  “My Pa woke me up from a nightmare, and I kicked him hard enough to leave bruises.  I would have done worse if my brother hadn’t run in.”

“Is that all?”

“Is that _all_?” Belle echoed incredulously, staring at her mentor.  “What do you mean ‘ _is that all_ ’?”

Gold grimaced, suddenly looking less confident and more awkward.  “I mean that worse has been done.  That’s all.  Your reactions aren’t unique, Belle.  We all do that.”

“How do I stop?” she whispered, remembering the feeling of her father’s neck under her hands, remembering the sudden terror and the sudden drive to _kill_ to keep herself safe.  Belle hadn’t wanted to become this kind of monster.  She had only done what she had to in order to survive.  Surely that didn’t make her evil, did it?  But if it didn’t, why couldn’t she stop trying to hurt people just to keep herself safe?

“It gets easier with time.  You’ll learn to stop yourself before it starts.”

“You keep saying that it’ll get easier!” The words burst out of Belle violently.  He’d said that on the train, had said it right after the Games, and _when_ was it supposed to get better if not now?  She’d won the Games, and everyone said that her life was supposed to be better _now_.  Yet here she was struggling with a darkness she hadn’t ever wanted inside her, here she was knowing that she faced five or more years as the Capitol’s plaything.  Her life was indeed full of material luxury, but everything else about it was horrible.

His answering smile was sad, but it was the hand that reached out to touch her arm—again, so gently and hesitantly—that helped melt Belle’s anger away.  “After the first year, usually,” Gold answered.  “Things become a bit of a routine after that.”

“You mean I’ll get used to not hurting those I love and used to being a whore,” she said bitterly, feeling hot tears rise.  She’d held back the tears for so long, had refused to let herself cry since she returned to Twelve, but now they started trickling down her face uncontrollably.  Soon enough, she was shaking and crying helplessly, her mind full of memories.  She’d killed—killed _children_ —and then she’d given herself to that horrible Farquaad—and—and—

“Oh, Belle.  This isn’t your fault,” Gold replied, and the hand on her arm tightened comfortingly.

Belle would have swung at anyone else, but somehow his touch meant safety.

“No one understands,” she sobbed.  Instinct made her turn towards him, and somehow Belle found her head buried in Gold’s shoulder as she cried. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Gold tells Belle the story of his own Games.


	13. Chapter 13

Her father didn’t appreciate the way Belle kept visiting Gold, but after one big fight over that, she stopped caring.  In fact, she started heading over to her fellow victor’s house nearly every day, realizing that it really wasn’t her imagination when she noticed how he seemed to enjoy not being alone.  She knew his story, at least a little, about a wife who died of a fever when his son was very young.  Why he’d never remarried was a mystery, because any Twelve woman would have jumped at the opportunity to marry him, district pariah or no.  He was the richest man in the district, excluding his absent son, and Belle knew that desperate people would put up with a lot just to have this kind of comfort.  _Plenty of men and boys want to marry me,_ she thought cynically _, and it’s not because they love me._

“Will you tell me about your Games?” she asked one afternoon.  They were supposed to be discussing her ‘talent’ in preparation for her Victory Tour, but Belle really needed the distraction.  Keith Nottingham had propositioned her again, and even if the Head Peacekeeper looked nothing like Minister Farquaad, she’d been experiencing flashbacks all morning.

“There’s not much to say.  I’m sure you’ve seen reruns,” Gold replied dryly.

“Not that I remember,” Belle answered, turning to look at him over the chess game they’d been poking at.  “Besides, I’d rather hear it from you.”

That just made him snort.  “It’s not a pretty picture, dearie.”

“It never is,” she shot back, and a long moment of silence hung between them.

“Fine,” Gold finally relented, and began to speak.

* * *

 

_The Year of the 50 th Games_

Milah grabbed his arm as the kids from the community home trundled towards the square, yanking him away from Dove and making him stumble.

“Hello to you, too,” Rumple snorted, trying to cover his surprise with sarcasm, much like he always did.  Milah was his girl, more or less; they’d been seeing one another for six or seven months, and he really liked her.  He liked her sass and her confidence, and the way she didn’t take bull from anyone.  Unlike Rumple, she wasn’t a product of the community home, but she didn’t look down on him because his father had gotten himself hung after one too many drunken thefts.  But he’d never seen her this worried looking.

“We need to talk,” Milah said hurriedly, and Rumple glanced over at Dove. 

“I’ll catch up with you, okay?”

“Sure,” Dove shrugged, but then, he never said much.  Milah always joked that Dove was the brawn of the operation where Rumple was the brains, and that did pretty much define their friendship.  But Rumple and Dove had been as close as brothers ever since Dove’s stepmother had thrown him out and Rumple’s aunt had died of black lung.  They’d been two misplaced ten year olds, and they’d been inseparable ever since.

“What’s up?” he asked Milah as she pulled him into an alley near the Hob. 

“I’m pregnant.”

The world dropped out from under him, and Rumple was _certain_ that he’d heard her wrong.  “ _What?_ ”

“As in, we’re going to have a kid,” she replied.  “In about four months.”

“How the hell didn’t you know that before now?” he asked, his mind whirling.  He couldn’t be about to have a kid.  Rumple was sixteen years old with three more Reapings ahead of him (two if you didn’t count the one due to start in an hour or so) and they’d only done it _once._   Milah had to be wrong, didn’t she?

But his girlfriend shrugged miserably.  “Apothecary says that malnutrition can hide it.  But the baby’s still there, so he must be a strong one.”

“He?” Rumple echoed, still feeling numb.  _I’m going to be a father?_

“I dunno. Just seems right, I guess.”  Milah scuffed her toe against the dirt road nervously.  “You gonna…I don’t know, help me with this?”

Her mother was still around, Rumple knew, working out of the Hob selling something different every week.  Milah’s father had died two years ago in yet another mining accident, so it was just the two of them.  And it wasn’t like they could afford another mouth to feed any more than any other seam family could.

“Of course I will!” Rumple snapped, offended that she even had to ask.  Didn’t Milah know him better than that?  “I just…you just took me by surprise, Milah.”

Her wan face split into a smile that Rumple had to kiss her for, but the sudden voice of a Peacekeeper broke up their happy moment. 

“You two!  Get to the square or you’ll be late!”

“We’ll make this work,” Rumple promised Milah, squeezing her hand in his.  She smiled back at him again, and he felt his heart flutter.  Maybe this wasn’t love, but it could be, and there were a lot worse reasons to get married in Twelve than having a kid.  _And I’m not going to be like my father,_ he promised himself, promised the child growing in Milah’s belly.  _I’ll be there, and I’m not abandoning you for anything._

* * *

 

“This year, as everyone knows, we have a very exciting opportunity for _two_ lucky young men and women to vie for supremacy in the Second Quarter Quell!” Cyan Caratossidis announced in that annoyingly high-pitched voice of hers, trilling with that Capitol accent that she _had_ to know made people hate her.  No one cheered, so she continued, beaming with happiness: “So, ladies first, as always!”

Caratossidis paused, probably for dramatic effect, but maybe she was just dumb. Rumple was pretty sure that it could go either way; he’d only seen the District Twelve Escort at Reapings, of course, and he certainly didn’t want to talk to her in person to find out, but it was probably a toss-up.  He just looked at Dove and rolled his eyes, trying to hide the way his heart was pounding.  Twice as many chances as usual.  Rumple was sixteen years old, and he’d had to take tesserae each year like every kid in the community home.  They couldn’t make ends meet otherwise, and Rumple couldn’t blame the two old women who ran the place for that.  So, his name was in that bowl ten times, which was at least better than some of the kids who had siblings and families to look out for.

_That’ll be me next year.  Next year I’m going to have a kid, and there’s no way I’m not taking tesserae if it’ll keep my child and Milah from starving._

“Goldie Loch!” Caratossidis finally trilled, and one girl gasped while everyone else held their breaths.  Poor Goldie made her way up to the stage shakily; she looked terribly out of place and uncomfortable.  Their escort made the entire crowd of kids wait until Goldie was on stage before she finally called the second girl: “Petra Piper!”

All Rumple could think that it wasn’t Milah, thank goodness _it wasn’t Milah._   Now she and their kid were safe, and he felt limp with relief.  He didn’t even watch Petra make her way up to the stage, hardly even noticed that she was barely twelve years old and terrified.  He was still stuck in his own world of relief when Caratossidis clapped excitedly, prancing over to the other bowl.

“Now for the gentleman!  First up…Albert Sandman!”

Oh, that sucked.  Albie was eighteen, and lived down the street from where Rumple had lived with his aunt before she died.  He was a good kid, but had some sort of problem with his vision or another, and he couldn’t see what was going on unless it was three inches from his face.  _That’s going to get him killed in there,_ Rumple thought with a mental sigh.  But then, he was usually pretty good at calling which tributes were going to die when, and he even made a bit of money off betting with the Peacemakers on that each year. In fact—

“Rumplestiltskin Gold!”

His first thought was utterly irrelevant, and it was about how he hated his full name.  It was fancy and so Capitolite, something his drunk father had stuck on him and probably spelled wrong on his birth certificate.  His second thought wasn’t much of a thought at all so much as terrifying blankness.  He couldn’t have heard his name.  He _couldn’t._

But Dove was staring at him, and so was everyone else.  Swallowing hard, Rumple looked up at the stage with wide eyes, really _seeing_ it for the first time. He had to go there.  And then to the Capitol.  And then he would be thrown into the Games, just like almost a hundred other tributes from District Twelve had been over the years, and _none of them_ had ever come home.  Somehow, his legs started carrying him forward, and step by step, he made his way up onto the stage, tripping on the steps and almost able to hear everyone jeering him as the no-good son of a thief and a drunk.  No one said anything, of course, and when he looked out at the crowd, he saw the same drawn and relieved faces as always.  No doubt they were thinking what he had been the last four years: _At least it isn’t me._

But this year it was.  In a trance, Rumple listened to Caratossidis tell the district to applaud the tributes, and the same lackluster clapping as always occurred somewhere on the edge of his consciousness.  Somehow or another, he wound up in a small room in the Justice Building, waiting for family he didn’t have to show up and say goodbye to him.  He was the only one out of the community home to be Reaped this year, and he imagined they were already cleaning his stuff out to make room for one of the younger kids in the bunk he had below Dove.  He was so busy thinking about that pleasant thought that he almost didn’t see Milah come in, almost didn’t notice her until she threw her arms around him.

She was crying, and that was just wrong, because Milah never cried.  She swore and she snarled and she shouted the world down, but Milah didn’t cry.

“I’ll come back,” he found himself promising, somehow dragged out of the funk.  “For you and our child.  I’ll come back.”

“You’d better,” she whispered, sounding like fierce Milah again if he ignored the sniffling.

“I will.  And then we’ll get a big house in Victor’s Village, and your mom won’t ever have to work a day again, either,” Rumple said, warming to his subject.  He could do this, after all.  He knew a little hunting—Dove had taught him how to shoot a bow and how to rig a few snares, and they often snuck out to help fill the communal pot at the home.  And Rumple was good with a knife.  _I can do this.  I have something to fight for,_ he thought, looking down at Milah’s still-flat belly.

“Then I won’t say goodbye,” Milah replied, pulling back and looking so strong.  Somehow, he managed to smile for her.

“Good,” Rumple replied, trying a cocky grin on for size.  It was always how he hid his anxieties, anyway, behind sarcasm and snarky remarks.  “Because I’m not letting any kid of mine grow up without a father.  Not like I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it’s been forever since I’ve updated this story! I’m sorry about the delay—I’ve been doing NaNoWriMo like crazy this month. Thank you to everyone who is still with me and still reading!
> 
> Up next: Rumple’s pre-Games interview, and he and Belle talk about the rest of his Games and why he is so much damn trouble.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for everyone who nominated this story for “Best Book AU” in this year’s TEAs on tumblr! I’m so excited that I could squeal. If you’re so inclined, voting starts on the 31st.

_The Year of the 50th Games_

He was brilliant and sarcastic in his interview, and got a decent training score, too.  Rumple’s seven was co-best for their district with Goldie Loch, who had pulled something surprising off, though she only smiled mysteriously and wouldn’t say what when he asked.  Sidney Glass had clearly been bored with interviewing twice as many tributes as usual by the time he got to Rumple, but Rumple’s cocky brilliance got his attention, and soon enough Sidney was helping Rumple charm the crowd.

“So, what do you think of your chances in the Games this year?  After all, there are twice as many tributes as usual, and twice the excitement,” Sidney asked, his eyes glowing with anticipation.

Rumple wanted to scream at him that this _wasn’t_ a game, that his life—and forty-nine others!—was on the line.  How could this drooling and screeching crowd think this was _fun_?  Seeing the Capitol go crazy over the Games on television every year was one thing, but experiencing it in person was something else entirely.  These people were crazy, and the entire damn crowd was staring at him like he was some sort of delicacy on one of their sickeningly huge buffets.  But screaming at them wouldn’t help, and it would only make him look like a terrified little kid.

 _No one bets on a terrified kid,_ he knew.  So, Rumple forced himself to shrug casually and lean back in his chair, crossing his legs and trying a cocky smile on for size.

“I figure my chances will be about the same as usual,” he drawled as nonchalantly as he could.  “Since everyone else is probably going to be about as stupid as usual.”

That made Sidney laugh uproariously, and the crowd fell a little in love with him.  The rest of his interview certainly went well, and his Capitol-assigned mentor, Zoso, told him that his odds actually went down significantly after the interview was over.  Not that being a twenty-to-one shot was much better than being fifty-to-one, but the Capitol seemed to like his attitude.  When Rumple asked if that could actually help him at all, Zoso  had just scowled and said that it might make getting sponsors a little easier—assuming he didn’t run for the Cornocopia like an idiot and get himself killed.

Not liking being dismissed like that, Rumple did exactly what Zoso told him not to once the Games started.  Dashing into the Cornocopia, he stole away a pack full of food, a few knives, and a spear he later lost in a big crocodile-like mutt that wanted to swallow him whole.  He managed to survive the supposedly suicidal run into Career-controlled territory because he _had_ been right during his interview; twice as many tributes meant people were twice a stupid, and there were an awful lot of kids all crowded into that little space.  That meant someone smart and sneaky could get in and out without being noticed.

His odds went down more than night, but Rumple only found that out later. _Much_ later.

In fact, no one bothered to tell him that the traditional bidding war over possible victors started that evening, with various Capitolites laying “claim” to their favorites.  Of course, no one knew who was going to win on that first night, but some people liked to hedge their bets and get in early.  Rumple wasn’t the favorite—Hordor from Two was—but an interesting amount of money went down on the cocky kid from Twelve, particularly after he killed that crocodile right before sunset that first night.

Had he known what he was getting into, he might have let the crocodile eat him.  Or at least he would have, had he not had a child on the way at home he was determined to provide for. 

* * *

 

“You told me _not_ to go for the Cornucopia right away,” Belle objected, looking at him with that arch look only she could manage.  Somehow, she could make him feel like a kid again, like he’d been caught stealing (which he’d never done) or poaching (which Rumple had done far more often than even the staff at the Community Home realized).  He’d even gotten himself flogged for that at fifteen, right alongside Dove Loxsley.  Fortunately, the old Head Peacekeeper had been nicer than his successor, and he hadn’t taken too many strips off of the boy’s backs.

Of course, that same Head had been the one to execute Dove less than a year later, but at least that ache was now an old one.  Forcing those thoughts aside, Rumple focused on the young victor sitting on his couch, whose blue eyes were begging for understanding and _something_ he couldn’t quite identify.

“Are you saying my advice was bad?” he countered, giving her a little smirk. 

“Of course I’m not,” Belle retorted, rolling her eyes.  “You were right.  But the reasons you told me not to go in still applied to you when you were in the Games, unless you’re implying that having twice as many tributes in the arena changed things.”

“It did, actually,” Rumple replied.  “There was a lot more confusion when I went in, and taking advantage of that was pretty easy.”

“You came home for your son, didn’t you?” she asked quietly, shifting the subject away from easy things to talk about, like killing and strategy. 

Rumple’s throat closed up slightly, thinking of the few short hours he’d been able to spend with Bae this year.  Usually, they had a bit more time, but this time Bae had a new ‘girlfriend’ and Rumple had been busy trying to keep Belle alive.   She’d come back, which had made the time spent worthwhile, but missing Bae was a constant ache in his heart that only grew worse year by year.  “Yes,” he said thickly.  “Yes, I did.”

A hand landed on his arm, gentle and more comforting than he expected.  Usually, Rumple shrugged off any touch he could get away with avoiding, but somehow, Belle’s was…nice.

“I know thinking of my family helped me,” she said.  “When I wanted to give up, I remembered all the reasons I had to go home.”

“He was all I had,” Rumple whispered, closing his eyes and trying not to relish the gentle hand on his arm, genuinely comforting human contact like he almost never received.  “And Milah. But she…”

 _She hated me before she died.  And it was all my fault,_ he didn’t add.

“What happened to her?” Belle asked, squeezing his arm again.

Rumple just shook his head.  That story would only frighten her, so instead he spoke of his Games.  At least that kind of terror was one they were both used to.

* * *

 

_The Year of the 50th Games_

The remaining male tribute from Ten had gotten a hammer from somewhere, and when Rumple and Goldie Loch (oh, he imagined that the commentators in the Capitol were having a blast with their names.  _Gold and Goldie, oh my!_ ) had come around a corner, still heading for the edge of the arena, he’d swung it at Goldie with all his might.  She caught a glancing blow on the shoulder, but Rumple managed to dodge as both females from Five went after Goldie.  She shot one with a blow dart and wound up wrestling with the other, leaving Rumple to face another boy who might has well have been a giant.

 _How in the world did someone from an outer district get so big?_ Rumple thought desperately, slicing at Ten’s hands with his knife and missing.  The other boy had to outweigh him by at least fifty pounds and was a good ten inches taller than Rumple was, and wasn’t that just ducky?  Ten came in hard and fast, swinging that hammer like an expert, and it was all Rumple could do to dance out of the way.  He imagined that the Capitol audience was loving this fight already, that the entire giant versus small kid from Twelve probably got them all kinds of excited.  But then he started wondering how _Milah_ felt watching this, and Rumple missed dodging a swipe from the hammer.

It hit him hard in the right side, almost hard enough to crack ribs.  Gasping and staggering back, Rumple barely kept ahold of his knives.  Ten jumped right after him, and he dove to the ground desperately, rolling away and barely managing not to stab himself while he was at it.  _Wouldn’t that be fabulous?  I can hear Sidney now: “Well, that’s a first, isn’t it, Rabbit?  We’ve had tributes kill themselves on purpose, but never by being an absolute idiot!”_

“Stay still, you little mushroom!” Ten growled at him as Rumple came to his feet and dodged again, leaning in to take a quick swipe at the giant, but missing by at least a foot.

“Do I look stupid to you, or can’t you tell the difference?”

The answer to that was another swing of the hammer, one that Rumple dodged easily.  But then Ten got smart, even as Goldie’s dying scream reached his ears, reversing the hammer to use the spike on the other end.  This he stabbed towards Rumple like a spear, and it was easier to escape—at least at first.  So, Rumple lunged at Ten even as the bigger boy tried to skewer him, slicing his opponent’s right arm open, cutting almost to the bone.  Ten cried out, and Rumple tried to press his advantage, but the bigger boy shoved him back with his left arm, swinging the hammer wildly.

Maybe it was bad luck, or maybe Ten knew what he was doing.  Rumple never knew; he just screeched as the spiked end of the hammer bit into the back of his left calf.  It sliced his leg open from ankle to mid-calf, and Rumple frantically rolled away, his vision going red-white-black with pain.  He could already feel blood soaking the back of his leg, even with the adrenaline racing through his system.  But it was that adrenaline that let Rumple scramble to his feet, and even though he staggered while he did so, he still lunged at the Ten boy.  Putting everything he had into one desperate leap, Rumple ducked beneath another wild swing of the hammer, and buried both knives right into the tall teen’s chest. 

They fell together, with Rumple on top.  He was shaking in relief as the Ten boy let out a gurgled cry of a last breath, and Rumple slumped on top of him, his hands slick with blood and his right leg burning.  He just wanted to rest, just wanted to _stop_.  Surely there had to be something that could help him?  Would this get him sponsors, or would they keep ignoring him?  _Don’t think about that,_ he told himself firmly.  Whatever the assholes outside the arena did was beyond his control.  He just had to keep living.

“Let’s get him,” a girl’s voice said, and Rumple’s head jerked up.

 _Damn._ There were the two Five girls, and Goldie’s body lay on the ground between them.  One of them held her right arm oddly, and there was a bloodstain where Goldie had hit her with one of her poisonous darts.  The poison had been all they could find in the arena, but it obviously didn’t work fast enough to save Goldie, because she was dead and the shorter Five girl was still alive.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” he asked as cockily as he could, hoping to rattle the pair.  The back of his mind considered the Capitol audience, the bastards with all the money, and figured that if he put on a good show, they might throw some of that money his way.  Heavens knew that he needed it; he could feel the blood pulsing out of his injured leg at an alarming rate.

“Isn’t he cute?” the shorter girl said to her district partner.  “Trying to sound threatening when he’s bleeding all over the place.”

“You can barely walk, Twelve,” the other girl snorted. 

“And yet I still killed this guy,” Rumple countered, shrugging casually.  “And he was a _lot_ tougher than either of you.”

“We killed your partner!”

“So?” he said callously, shoving regrets and the thought of _I-just-killed-someone-and-I-feel-so-dead-and-empty_ out of his mind.  _I’m sorry, Goldie._ “She was nothing.  Rather like you, in fact, dearies.”

Rumple didn’t know their names.  He hadn’t wanted to find them out before the Games, and as he struggled to his feet, he was glad that he hadn’t.  That would have made them a lot harder to kill, and right now what he needed wasn’t human feelings.  So, he took a desperate gamble and threw the knife in his right hand at the already injured girl, betting that she wouldn’t be able to dodge as quickly.  By some miracle, the knife hit the wounded girl right in the throat, which made the other one lunge at Rumple.

He killed her, too, and even though it was a messy affair and left him barely able to walk at all.  Her canon sounded just as he cut himself a crooked staff off of a nearby tree, hoping the bark wasn’t poisonous and knowing he had no choice if he wanted to get clear of the bodies before the hovercraft arrived.  Feeling dirty and so damned empty, Rumple looted the four dead tributes—including his glassy-eyed district partner, whose death had made him the only remaining Twelve tribute—for anything useful, and then limped off into the trees to try to bind his leg up before he bled out.

* * *

 

“What happened after that?” Belle asked when he paused, unable to contain her curiosity.  She couldn’t remember ever having seen Rumple’s Games, but the shadows they had left in Rumple’s eyes were clear. 

 _When did he become ‘Rumple’?_ Belle wondered to herself.  _He used to be just Gold._   Maybe that had happened when Belle had started coming by every day, or when she’d started _talking_ to the man.  Back before her Games, Rumple had seemed so much older than her, but now the years between them seemed immaterial.  They were the same: killers and victims.  _Victors._

“The sponsors noticed me,” he shrugged.  “They sent medicine for my leg—not that it helped much, mind.  I could barely walk by the end of the Games, but I still managed to kill two careers a week later.”

“I thought you killed three careers.”

Rumple snorted.  “Well, the last one was a bit indirectly.”

“I don’t understand, exactly,” Belle frowned.

“No, I expect you don’t,” he chuckled.  “It’s not something you’ll see in a replay.”

“Well, now I’m curious,” she replied before she could stop herself, giving him a smile that actually felt natural.  Belle hadn’t felt like herself since being Reaped, but somehow, this conversation felt so _normal._   And when Rumple smiled back, his brown eyes twinkling ever so slightly, she felt a strange sense of victory.  And one of hope.

What she was hoping for, Belle still didn’t know.

“After I killed those last two tributes, the girl from Two—Owen’s cousin, actually—came after me.  The medicine from the sponsors had run out, and I was limping pretty badly.  I knew I couldn’t go far, but we were near the edge of the arena, so I went for the forcefield.  She chased me there, and I threw my last knife at her.  And I missed.”

“You _missed_?” Belle gaped.  “I thought you were supposed to be some whiz with throwing knives?”

“I am now,” he replied.  “I had to come up with _some_ sort of ‘talent’ for my Victory Tour—which you’ve still got to do, lest you forget.  It was either throwing knives or raising geese, and can you see me with geese?”

“Only if they were attack geese!”

Rumple laughed, and he looked years younger when he did.  “Well, I went with knives.  But before that, any time I managed to actually _hit_ someone with one was pure luck.  So, I missed her by a mile.  But I opened my mouth and taunted her—something I’m rather good at, if you haven’t noticed,” he added as Belle giggled—“and she flung her axe at me.  And, just like I’d known would happen, when I ducked, the axe bounced back and implanted itself in her skull.”

Those last ten words made Belle’s heart hammer to a stop, and suddenly she _knew_ what Rumplestiltskin Gold was. 

“You turned the Capitol’s tools against them,” she whispered.  “And you did it on mandatory national _television_.”

“I did.”  Brown eyes met hers steadily.  “And it’s not something Blue will ever forgive.  You need to understand that, Belle.  Outright defiance has a price.  One you’ll never stop paying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up Next: Rumple learns the hard truth about what is expected after his victory, and he tries to put Belle back together.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much for everyone who voted for this story at the TEAs! This is No Game won Best Book AU, and I am speechless with the happy.
> 
> In celebration, I plan on writing 1 prompted one-shot or future event, as chosen by you. Feel free to leave your prompt here or send it to me on tumblr! If I get more than one prompt, I’ll put them up to a vote.

_ The Year of the 50th Games _

The morning he was released from the Tribute Remake Center—still limping and walking with a cane for the first time (but not the last)—he was escorted to President Blue’s mansion.  Zoso, the District Five victor from the 42nd Games, escorted him there, having drawn the short end of the stick in the ‘spare victor’ pool and been roped into mentoring for District Twelve this year.  Zoso was a hard-bitten man who had proven unpopular as a victor and resented being dragged back to the Capitol in his year off (Five had three living victors, and they took turns), which meant he had no advice for the uppity District Twelve kid who had no idea what was going on.  He gave no words of warning, either, and just dropped Rumple off in the waiting room and then backed as far off as he could.

Later, Rumple would understand why any victor wanted to keep his distance from Blue.  The last thing any of them wanted was to be tarred by the rebellious boy who had turned the Gamemakers’ tricks against them.  None of them wanted to associate with him until they knew which way the wind was blowing, until they knew how Blue was going to deal with him.  And later, they’d still be wary of him, because of what he somehow became: the problem victor, the example, and the one no one wanted to be like.

“Mr. Gold,” the President of Panem greeted him from behind an impressive mahogany desk.  There was no chair for Rumple to sit in, despite the fact that his leg was burning with pain.  The nurses had told him that he wanted to be clear headed for this meeting, and he hadn’t disagreed, but now he wished he’d argued.

“You wanted to see me, ma’am?” He’d been cocky in his pre-game interviews and would fall back on his sharp mind and wit later, but right now he was just a scared kid.  All Rumple wanted to do was go home to Milah and the baby she was going to have in a few months.  He’d won.  It was supposed to be over, wasn’t it?

“We needed to discuss your conduct in the Games, Mr. Gold,” Blue said, and her voice was threatening in a gentle and quiet way that sent a terrified shiver down Rumple’s spine.

Zoso had mentioned off-handedly that Blue wouldn’t take that stunt with the force field well, but that had been the most that his “mentor” had offered.  Unfortunately, he had been right.  Zoso hadn’t bothered to tell him what to say, but instinct told Rumple what told him what he couldn’t afford to be, and he was going to do his damnedest to be as inoffensive a spossible.

“I didn’t mean any disrespect, ma’am,” he replied immediately, lying as best he could.  _I didn’t meant to show that I hate you all._   “I was just trying to survive, trying to get home to my—”

“To your unborn child, yes,” Blue cut him off, rolling her eyes as if she’d heard this a hundred times.  Her smile was thin.  “Let’s not lie to one another, shall we?”

Rumple nodded quickly.  “Of course not.”  At least he’d been telling the truth about wanting to go home.  He was going to marry Milah, going to make sure that their kid never grew up in a group home like he did, wasn’t orphaned or given up just because his parents were too young or too poor.  _Or too drunk to do the right thing._

“I regret to inform you that your childhood best friend, Mr. Tiberius Dove, was hanged for poaching this morning in District Twelve,” the president continued, her tone so blasé that she might as well have been discussing the weather.   “His girlfriend, Marie Undersee, was hanged beside him.  I understand that his younger half-brother, Robin Loxsley, has been found outside the district boundaries before as well.”

Dumbstruck, Rumple could only stare.  The threat was clear, as if Blue had tattooed it into his skin.  One friend was dead, his _best_ friend from the group home, the boy who had always been like a brother to him.  And Blue would kill others.

“Why not Milah?” he blurted out after a moment, still horrified but having to know.  He wasn’t sure he loved her, but Rumple thought that he could, given enough time.  They were going to have a kid together, and he wasn’t going to let her down.  _But what if Blue kills them both, before our child can even draw breath?_ That thought was too terrifying to even contemplate.

“Now, why would I be so crass as to eliminate a woman who is with child?” Blue replied, and for a few seconds, Rumple was relieved, fooled by her maternal smile.  Until she continued: “I would never kill a child that could someday be Reaped.  That would be a waste.”

Hearing those words changed his life forever, and turned the next fourteen years into his personal crusade.  He did everything in his power to please Blue, no matter the cost to himself, hoping and praying that it would be enough.  Rumple endured whatever his clients threw at him, learned to satisfy them and learned to be whatever they wanted him to be.  Milah died three years later, but he still hoped that he might spare his son the arena.

He could not.

* * *

 

Twenty-one years later, he found himself trying to save someone else.  Time passed, and much to Rumple’s surprise, Belle didn’t start avoiding him.  Instead, she started dropping by his house every day, talking about what was going on in town, or just about nothing at all.  They watched the horribly-scripted Capitol movie marathons together, poking fun at the actors and what Capitolites thought life in the districts was like.  He showed her how to use the ridiculous array of Capitol-supplied cooking appliances in his home, given how she (like Rumple) had never even _seen_ things like this before becoming a victor.  And, somehow, they became friends.

“We need to talk about your Victory Tour,” he said almost three months after they’d returned from the Games.  There were still two months left before the tour (which was five months after one set of Games and four and half months before the next one), but Rumple had found out the hard way that it paid to be prepared.

 _Of course, she won’t be losing her virginity on the tour,_ he thought bitterly, still angry at Blue for how Belle had been treated in the Capitol.  So far as he knew, _no_ other victor had been sold so early—even him, and he’d demonstrated even more defiance than she had in his Games, albeit in a less consistent manner.  Still, Belle deserved so much better.  She was a _good_ person, unlike him, and somehow the rough treatment she’d received at Farquaad’s hands hadn’t turned her bitter.  Perhaps it was a foolish thought, but Rumple hoped he could shield her from becoming like he had.  _Things are different now,_ he tried to tell himself.  _The others will help her the way no one helped me._

“Already?” she grimaced.

“It doesn’t get prettier if you wait, dear,” Rumple said as gently as he could.  “At least you already know the worst part.”

“I’m going to get sold to someone else while we’re in the Capitol, aren’t I?” Belle asked quietly.  They’d been sitting on the couch together, watching some stupid nature special, but now her knees came up and she wrapped her arms around herself protectively.

“Yes.”  He wouldn’t lie to her.  She deserved the truth.

“Why?” 

Sighing, Rumple tried not to snap at her that they’d gone through this before.  He supposed he would have asked the question a dozen times, too, had there been anyone to ask.  But he’d been Twelve’s first victor, and there had been no one at home to lean on.  _Except Milah, and I couldn’t_ tell _her._  

“Victors are the only links between the districts,” he explained carefully, mindful of the bugs he was certain were in his house.  _Only tell her what you want Blue to hear._   He’d lived by that mantra for years; they could always slip into the woods if they had to speak without being spied on.  “That makes us dangerous.  So does the fact that most of the Capitol—and even some of the districts—look at us as celebrities.  This…I suppose this keeps us in line and sates the Capitol’s never ending interest in us.”

“How can they _buy_ us if they see us as heroes?” Belle demanded, and it was at least a more logical question than most young victors asked.

“Because most of them don’t know, that’s why,” Rumple snorted.  “Most of the Capitol wants to put you on a pedestal and stare at you.  They’d never dream of fucking you.  The list of buyers is… _exclusive._ ”

Belle stared at him for a moment, seemingly taken aback by his coarse language.  But Rumple refused to call what happened between a victor and a ‘patron’ sex, making love, or any other kinder euphemism.  It was being fucked, plain and simple.  _Or being raped._   But he tried not to think of it that way; that allowed too much truth into the equation and implied weakness and vulnerability that he refused to let himself feel.  He was not going consider himself a victim.  Not after this many years.

“So…most people in the Capitol have no idea, do they?” she whispered.

“Only the richest of the rich,” he confirmed.  “Buying a night with a victor costs enough to feed Twelve for months.”

“Great.  Too bad we don’t get any of the money,” Belle said dryly, and Rumple surprised himself by laughing.

“Some of them will try to give you gifts,” he told her.  “Take them or don’t; it’s your call.  Most of the gift-givers are trying to make themselves feel less guilty for buying you.”

Blue eyes met his.  “You’re telling me that they’ll give me presents after they tie me down and—and—” her voice cracked, and Rumple reached out to touch her arm gently.

“The vast majority of your ‘clients’ want a date,” he said gently.  “They want you to smile and pretend you’re in love with them.  They want to be flattered and fucked within an inch of their lives, and they want to pretend that you’re with them by choice.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Belle replied, and now Rumple could see the fire in her eyes that had led her to win the Games.  She’d had a rough time adjusting, but now _Belle_ was coming back. _I just hope I can keep her back,_ he thought sadly.  _This life wears on all of us before too long._ “They want us to _fake_ it?”

“You have to.  If you don’t…”

The threat didn’t need to be spoken.  She knew, just as he did, what was at stake.

* * *

 

Three months passed before she got beneath that hard outer shell to find the sense of humor lurking underneath the façade Rumple Gold showed the rest of the world, but once Belle finally teased it out of him, she hoped he never hid it again.  He was _different_ when he smiled; he looked younger and less haunted, and Belle found his laugh, rare though it was, contagious.  He was funny and he was sweet—at least when he wasn’t trying to be off-putting, anyway.  Rumple really was quite clever, which kept her coming back to his house because she could _talk_ to him. 

They tried not to talk about the Games, instead focusing on other things.  He showed her how to work a book reader, and how to order books from the Capitol.  Belle now had _money_ to burn, and she was almost ashamed to say how much of it went towards books.  But Rumple warned her not to do something crazy like try to buy food for everyone in the Seam, or to demonstrate too much largesse.  The Capitol would crack down on that, he explained to her, and showed her the more subtle ways of helping.  After all, he had over twenty years’ worth of experience finding ways to help without attracting attention, and although Belle ached to do _more_ , she told herself that this was the smarter way.

After all, she had to protect her father and her brother, along with Babette and _her_ brother.  Belle had a lot to lose, and she knew it.

“Ella takes my trash down to town twice a week,” he told her a month before the Victory Tour, shortly after she finished trying on a slew of outfits Archie had sent to Twelve.  Belle hadn’t been sure why she’d brought them over to Rumple’s instead of asking Babette what she thought, but she told herself that Rumple had been to the Capitol and knew what to look for.

“Why’s that relevant?” she blinked, folding the last sweater and putting it away.

He shrugged with studied casualness.  “The Capitol sends me far more food than I can eat, and I don’t like half of it, anyway.  So I throw it out.”

“You— _Oh_.  Of course you do.  Why would you keep it around?” Belle caught herself quickly.  The houses were all bugged, Rumple had told her once.  “Do you think she might take ours, too?”

“She won’t do it for free, but I suspect she’d be happy for the extra money now that Alexandra’s around,” Rumple replied, and Belle made a mental note to do more shopping in town.  So far, her family had been eating what the Capitol sent because a lifetime in the Seam made you _never_ waste food, but if she could buy other things—therefore giving the money to people who needed it—and ‘throw away’ everything else…well, that would be another way of helping.  A warm rush ran through her, and Belle found herself smiling back at Rumple.

For a moment, their eyes met.  Their shared enjoyment of the clever way around the Capitol’s ridiculous—and heartbreaking—policies made their smiles light, and for a moment, Belle felt more at home than she had since the Games.  Her confidence buoyed, she asked:

“You want to go into town with me to ask her?”

His sly smile vanished.  “You’re better off going into town without me.  They don’t much like me there.”

“You could try to get to know them,” Belle pointed out as gently as she could.  “If they knew you like I do—”

“They’d still hate me.” Rumple’s voice grew hard.  “They see me as a Capitol sellout who gets their children killed.”

“Everyone knows it isn’t your fault when kids die in the Games,” she protested.  The poor silly man—did he really think everyone hated him?  Belle knew he was terribly lonely, but not everyone in town was as horrible as the kids who threw rocks at his windows.

“Sure they do, dearie,” he snorted. 

“Rumple.”

He ignored her, walking into the kitchen with finality he clearly intended to be the end of the conversation, but Belle followed.

“Please come with me?” she asked, and Rumple turned to glare at her.  Belle just gave him her most pleading look, and after a moment, his shoulders slumped.

“Fine.  I need to see the butcher about something, anyway.”

Belle grinned, and grabbed him by the arm before Rumple could find a way to weasel out of it.  She was glad that she had money in her wallet, though, because if she had stopped by her own house, he probably would have gone off to hide somewhere instead of going into town with her.  She knew that Rumple didn’t like going into town unless he needed something, and yes, she knew that a lot of people in Tweleve didn’t like him much.  But she was convinced that was because they didn’t _know_ him.  Rumple kept to himself, and for the last four years he’d been the only one in Victor Village.  That created a lot of distance between him and the rest of the district, a distance Belle was determined to bridge.

The first part of their trip went off without hassle; Belle negotiated a price for Ella to pick up her “garbage” (most people in Twelve just took it to the landfill behind the slag heap themselves), and they stopped by the butcher.  There was some definite history between the old man and Rumple; Hubert Prince tried to give Rumple a discount, but Rumple slipped some money beneath the counter when the butcher wasn’t looking.  Belle watched that exchange with interest as Mr. Prince promised to drop Rumple’s order off by the next night, and then they walked outside into the afternoon sunshine.  It was cooler out, but for the first time in her life, Belle had ample winter clothes, so she just shoved her hands back in her gloves and let herself enjoy the crisp air.

“How do you know Mr. Prince?”

A shadow crossed Rumple’s face.  “I took his son to the Capitol.”

That made her blink, until Belle suddenly remembered.  “Philip!  Philip was the butcher’s son.”

“He was.”

“He won,” Belle searched her memory for facts about Twelve’s second victor; she couldn’t remember ever having heard much about him.  “In…the fifty-fourth Games?”

“Fifty-second.  Two years after me.”

“What happened? I only remember hearing that he died a few years later.”

Rumple was quiet for a long moment as they walked past the storefronts they’d already visited.  Belle had already spent more than she’d planned to, particularly since she’d paid generously to have everything delivered (which put money in the hands of those doing the deliveries in addition to the shop owners), so there was nowhere left to visit.  Rumple had bought several things, too, though he wasn’t feeding a family of five, so his purchases were fewer than her own.  She’d thought she caught him staring wistfully at a few kids out playing, but when he’d noticed her watching, he turned away and scowled.  Now he wore that same scowl again before answering quietly, bitterness in every word.

“It was an accident.  In the Capitol.  Doctor Whale—the victors’ physician; you’ll meet him next year—said it was a drug overdose.”

“Drugs?”

“Oh, yeah.  There’s all kinds of designer crap in the Capitol.  Try not to take any of it if you can avoid it.”  Belle caught the unspoken words there, and they almost made her stop cold.  She was getting good at reading between the lines of what Rumple said, and the translation here was clear: _Some of your patrons will want to give it to you, and you might not be able to say no._

“And Philip…took too much?” Belle asked slowly, having a hard time imagining how any patron could be dumb enough to kill a victor with drugs.  _Then again, maybe he took them on his own, trying to deal with this life,_ she thought.  _But who could do that with a family at home?_ The rules were simple, she knew.  If you killed yourself, your family would die, too…and Philip’s father was still alive.

“The official line was that it was an accident,” was the soft reply.  “It was…a bit more complicated than that.”

“How?”

His face closed off again, but this time Belle could read the pain and loss in his eyes, and something in the vicinity of her heart twisted upon seeing that.  “Ask for details another time,” Rumple all but whispered.  “Philip got involved with a victor from another district.  It was…messy.”

“I didn’t think that was—”

“How dare you show your face here?” an angry voice interrupted her, and Belle’s head jerked around as Lydia Rosen—Gaston’s mother—strode up, her face red with fury and rolling pin in hand.

“Me?” she squeaked in surprise.  “I don’t—I don’t know what you mean.”

“Not you, you stupid girl,” Lydia cut her off in a snarl.  “ _Him._ ”

“Can I help you, dearie?” Rumple demanded, every line in his body going rigid.  Gone was the man who told her truths and who had held her when she sobbed on the train; this was the face the Capitol saw, and it clearly infuriated the baker’s wife.

“You’re a murderer,” Lydia spat.  “You took my son to the Capitol and _got him killed_.  You should have known that those tributes from One and Two would turn on him!  I bet you set it all up, didn’t you, so you could go back to your Capitol lovers just that much faster?”  The rolling pin came up threateningly.  “It was something of a miracle Belle made it out, wasn’t it?  I’m sure she had no help from _you_.”

Lydia punctuated those words with a shove, which, much to Belle’s surprise, Rumple simply _took_ , looking a little frozen and all too resigned.  He didn’t even try to defend himself verbally, either, so Belle stepped in.

“That’s not how it was,” she said firmly, moving between Rumple and Gaston’s irate mother.  “He did his best to help both of us.  I know.  I was there.”

Lydia sneered.  “He says that every year, and yet all our children come home dead while _he_ parties with the rich and famous.”

“It’s not like that,” Belle protested, but something about those words kept echoing in the back of her mind.

“Sure it isn’t,” the older woman snorted, and turned away while the two victors watched.

“Why don’t you say anything to people like her?” Belle asked, turning back to face Rumple after Lydia was gone.

“Because it doesn’t help,” he replied glumly, turning to walk back towards Victors’ Village without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Belle bluntly asks Rumple for the truth about his life, and we take a trip into his Victory tour and beyond.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of non-graphic rape this chapter. You knew this story was going to be dark.

“Wait up,” Belle called, jogging to catch up with Rumple as he trudged up the hill towards Victors’ Village.  Her former mentor—and now friend—paused to let her, and then he continued walking in silence.

She waited several moments for him to say something, _anything_ , about that awkward encounter with Gaston’s mother, but when he didn’t, Belle spoke up cautiously:

“Mrs. Rosen said something that made me think.”

“Don’t do that too much.  The Capitol doesn’t like it when victors _think_.”

Scowling, Belle ignored his attempt to change the subject.  She _needed_ to know.  “You told me that no one gets…sold after twenty-five or so.”

Rumple missed a step, and the way he suddenly _wasn’t_ looking her way told the answer, and Belle’s heart plummeted.  Lydia had accused him of partying with the rich and famous in the Capitol, of taking _lovers_.  But Belle knew now that victors didn’t take Capitol lovers; they were sold.  And if Gaston’s mother thought Capitolites were distracting Rumple, that meant he was still being sold.  _Please tell me it’s something else._ Anything _else_ , Belle thought desperately, realizing that she would rather Rumple take lovers of his own volition than _that_.  Even if the thought hurt for reasons she wasn’t sure she wanted to examine.

“I did,” he answered shortly.

“You won the 50th Games.” Belle tried to _will_ it not to be true.   But then she remembered Tink telling Rumple that he had an ‘appointment’ one night when they’d been in training, and their escort had even mentioned Ms. Goodwin…who Belle knew ran the Office of Victor Affairs.  “That was twenty-one years ago.”

“Yes, and I’m thirty-seven.  Nearly thirty-eight.  Your point?”  He looked at her, his face tight but not showing any of the shame Belle might have expected, just a broken form of resignation.  His smile was sharp-edged and bitter.  “I’ve been told that I have a face that gets better with age.”

“They’re still…?” Belle couldn’t bring herself to say it, couldn’t imagine facing that every year for twenty years.  Once had been bad enough, and she wasn’t sure how she was going to deal with her Victory Tour.  How terrible must it have been to go to the Capitol alone every year and face _that_?

“Selling me?” Rumple said bluntly.  “Yes.”  He shrugged, clearly trying to pretend he didn’t care.  “My popularity waxes and wanes, but there’s always someone.  I have an unfortunate number of repeat customers.

“…Why?”

He finally met her eyes.  “Because I am the _problem_ Victor.  Because I won my Games by turning the Capitol’s toys against them, and then I _dared_ to bring my own son home from the Games.  As our dear president would say, there is a price to be paid for defiance.”

“That’s not fair.”  The protest slipped out in a whisper before she could stop it, and Rumple only snorted.

“Nothing in this world of ours is fair, Belle.  It’s not fair that you had to kill other children to come home again.  It’s not fair that my son was Reaped because of _my_ actions.”  His voice snapped out, hard and cold, but even as Belle flinched, she knew that Rumple’s anger wasn’t directed at her.  “ _Fair_ has nothing to do with it.  We do what we have to so that we can survive, and so that we don’t take our families down with us.  That’s it.”

“But you’ve—I mean, I know how much I still hurt from the one time.  How could you deal with twenty-plus _years_ of that?” The question tumbled out as Belle reached for his arm, but Rumple yanked away.

“Because I don’t have a choice.”  He wouldn’t look at her, now, though, and Belle could feel the pain radiating off of him.  How many years had he faced this by himself?  How had he even _coped_ at all?

He didn’t give her a chance to ask before he turned and strode back towards Victor’s Village.  That left Belle to follow silently in his wake, her mind whirling madly.  Rumple had helped her so much, had helped her remember that she was still a person of value even if the Capitol was determined to sell her.  She’d find a way to help him, too.

No matter what it took.

* * *

 

_ The 50th Games Victory Tour _

By six months after the Games, everyone knew that he had a son back home, so it wasn’t like Blue could sell him as a virgin.  Once Zoso cautiously cued him in on that fact—the annoyed Five victor had been sent to shepherd Rumple through his Victory Tour—Rumple had thought that was something of a win.  But back then, he hadn’t realized how badly one man could hurt another.  Zoso told him, sure, but he hadn’t really understood.  Zoso, having other victors in his district when he won, had been warned before this happened.  Later, Rumple learned that Zoso hadn’t been without practical experience with other girls and boys when he’d become a victor, either, and his first customer had likely been a lot more considerate than Rumple’s wound up being.

Rumple’s first time had been on the Victory Tour itself, right after the first gala in the Capitol.  Zoso had given him a half-apologetic shrug and told him that Blue didn’t take kindly to defiance of the sort he’d shown in the arena, to which he’d just snapped back that he’d already figured that out, thank you.  It didn’t take a genius to figure out that district kids weren’t supposed to outthink the Gamemakers.  Clever was good; brilliant was not.  Oh, they had all admired Doc’s genius in electrocuting his fellow tributes during the 37th Games, but that was a tribute from Three.  He was supposed to be a prodigy.  A kid from the backwoods of Twelve wasn’t supposed to be able to think on his feet like that, wasn’t supposed to be brilliant, not like that.  Rumple had kept his brains hidden being a snarky façade during the interviews, and he mostly did the same out of habit back in Twelve, so he’d hoped that Blue might be fooled into thinking his move had been blind luck.

Unfortunately, his conversation with the President during the Victory Gala must have somehow let some of his smarts out of hiding, hard though Rumple had tried to conceal them.  He’d seen the gleam in Blue’s eyes even then, and had scrambled to cover up whatever he’d mistakenly revealed, but by then it was too late.  The rest of the party dragged on, and Rumple tried to tell himself that he’d been wrong, and that he should forget his worries and just enjoy himself.  The Capitol certainly seemed to be enjoying _him_ , and he had a sneaking feeling that he should take the fun where he could find it.  Zoso hadn’t answered many of his questions about being a victor, but Rumple’s instincts were already telling him that danger lay ahead.  His time in the arena against forty-seven other tributes had taught him to trust those instincts, so when the District Twelve escort took his arm to bring him to a more ‘private’ engagement, Rumple was already on edge.

Those instincts from the Games were telling him that now was the time to run away _fast_ , but the conversation with Blue the day of the Victor’s Crowning had taught him that running wasn’t an option.  He would have to endure whatever was coming, and do it as stoically as he could.  After all, it wasn’t like he’d never had sex before.  He might not be terribly experienced, but he knew what to expect.

He hadn’t expected a room full of men, electricity (“You like force fields, don’t you, boy?” Head Gamemaker Victor Halliday trilled so many times that Rumple thought the words were tattooed between his ears), and a metal rod of something that tore him open until he screamed.  They tied him down and electrocuted the hell out of him before he they started raping him.  By the time they were finished, Rumple was bruised, bleeding, and he felt like his jaw had been torn out of socket.

President Blue had just watched dispassionately, standing off to the side.  Every now and then, she reminded them—not him, because he was apparently beneath her notice—that defiant victors deserved no mercy.  They should feel free to do their worst.

* * *

 

Those first few years were the worst.  At home, he married Milah right away.  Two months after he returned from the Games, Baelfire was born.  In the beginning, it was a pretty good life; he had no idea what was coming, and he could settle into being married, being rich, having a son and a home of his own.  It was a far cry from being one more kid in the community home, and life was wonderful for those first six months after the Games.  Without any senior victors around to warn him, Rumple tried to help the rest of the district as much as he could.  He was too clever to do so openly, but he had money now, and he could buy things for friends, for Bae, and certainly for Milah.  Like him, she’d grown up dirt poor, and being able to give her everything was intoxicating.  His conversation with Blue had more or less told Rumple that Bae would someday be Reaped, but that was twelve years away, and perhaps the president would change her mind, or something else would happen.  For now, he was determined to be happy.

Then he went on his Victory Tour, and nothing was the same again.  He tried, particularly for Milah’s sake, to pretend that nothing was wrong, but after he got back from his first year mentoring, the façade started to fall apart.  His female tribute that year actually made past the initial bloodbath—Felicia Wheeler had been smart and willing to listen to his advice—but after she died on day four, the floodgates opened.  His first night without a tribute brought with it three separate appointments, and the last one had left him bleeding and needing attention from Doctor Whale, the young physician who had just been tasked with the victors’ ‘well-being’ when they were in the Capitol.  The next thirty-seven nights were much the same, progressively getting worse and worse, and the terms were laid out to him very clearly: submit or watch his family die.  So he submitted, pushing down his instincts to attack those who hurt him.

The other victors didn’t talk about it much in those days, although Ingrid, from One, finally pulled him aside and tried to help.  She’d won the year before him and was nineteen to his seventeen, so she was the closest in age to him out of anyone in Mentor Central.  He was slowly getting to know the others, some of whom were kind enough to help him learn how to Mentor (a trial by fire if there ever was one), but none of them had wanted to help him with what it meant to get sold to the highest bidder night after night.  It was something of a shameful secret none of them wanted to admit to, even if he figured out pretty quickly who the other unwitting whores were.  Ingrid might not have offered if she hadn’t found him passed out in the elevator that third night, wrung out on designer drugs and almost high enough not to care how badly he was bleeding.  But she had, and slowly he learned the ropes, learned the lessons that the others had also absorbed so quietly and painfully.

Rumple didn’t want to talk about it anymore than they did, of course.  The idea of submitting to being raped, of going willingly into whatever bed he was ordered into and pretending he liked it—or letting people hurt him, too, if that was what they wanted—made him sick to even contemplate.  Judging from the looks on their faces, he guessed that Ingrid, Maleficent, Geppetto, Jack, Ursula, and Blackbeard felt much the same.  They seemed to be the most popular of his fellows, but when she was cornered, Mal had shrugged and admitted that most everyone got sold for a year or two after their victory, unless they were just plain ugly like Tuck or Zoso, in which case, there were only a few ‘specialized’ buyers and the demand ended rather quickly.  She’d looked at him critically and said his bone structure was too good for that, clucking a little sympathetically and predicting that his looks would only get better with age.

Unfortunately, she was right.  So was Ingrid when she told him that he needed to learn to act in a hurry, lest he find himself with only the niche of customers who wanted someone to beat down and hurt.  So, Rumple learned to pretend he liked it, learned to seduce and to please, burying his soul somewhere where he was pretty sure that even he couldn’t find it.  Or at least not while he was in the Capitol.  By the end of the 51st Games—and the extra three days he’d wound up staying afterwards, because apparently Blue didn’t care if he got a reputation as a playboy in the Capitol, which was what the media was certainly painting him as—Rumple had furiously embraced his new position as the dangerous victor who needed would seduce you or who needed _just_ the right amount of taming.

His first fight with Milah came two hours after he got off the train, right after he finished handing two caskets continuing dead tributes off to mourning parents.  Wrung out with grief for the kids he had tried so hard to save and unable to even begin to come to terms with what he had done in the Capitol, he flinched when she tried to hug him, and everything went straight downhill from there.  Milah took that as a sign that he liked Capitol women—and Capitol _men_ , an unthinkable depravity in District Twelve!—better than her, and she interpreted everything all wrong.

Rumple had known that he couldn’t tell her about this.  The sickeningly sweet woman who ran the Office of Victor Affairs, Glinda Goodwin, had made that very clear to him, but he’d hoped to come home to some peace and had instead found a wife who was furious with him.  He’d wanted nothing more than to cling to her for some normality, but Milah was having none of that.  They did manage to make up, and life and their marriage went on fairly normally for the rest of that year.  That worked right up until the days before the 52nd Games took him straight back into the hell of being a whore who couldn’t even pick his own clients.  Even worse, the media was all over the way he was ‘turning District Twelve around’ when Philip Prince came home with him.  The Victory Tour only made it worse; when Philip went up for grabs, Rumple did, too, and suddenly his face was everywhere.  He even got called back to the Capitol for additional interviews in the months between Philip’s victory and the Tour, which meant more buyers and more attention.  He knew that Milah saw it, too, even though she’d tried to write off his first trip to the Capitol as full of temptations he couldn’t resist.

She refused to say a kind word to him for three weeks after that, despite him begging and pleading and bleeding inside.  He just needed someone to understand, someone there in Twelve that understood that he wasn’t some Capitol sellout other than Philip, who was having trouble enough dealing with the truth on his own.  Unfortunately, none of them did, even if the district was happier when their children weren’t being murdered so often.  So, he buried himself in their beautiful boy, telling himself that keeping Bae safe was worth any sacrifice.

That becomes the mantra by which he lives his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: In the past, Rumple tries to make his marriage to Milah work. In the present, Belle asks about what happened Baelfire and why he lives in the Capitol.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter includes character death, mentions of rape, and violence.

**17.**

_ The Past _

The dominant role he took on suited his persona but that wasn’t the only reason.  If he was in control, if he was the one turning some patron into a puddle of pleased goo, then they touched him less.  He didn’t want to feel their hands on him, and he sure as hell didn’t want to give anything of himself to them.  The fact that he was naturally far more submissive than the ‘take control seducer’ he played at being only underlined how much of a lie it all was.  In the beginning, he could tell himself that it was different with Milah, that it was different when it was real and not just screwing someone because he was ordered to.  He hated himself even as he learned every trick in the trade, letting those who bought him think that he was always just a hair’s breadth away from utterly giving in to them.  It made them eager for more, made him a hot commodity, and for a while, it shielded Rumple from the ones who preferred pain to pleasure. 

But it also meant that he was glamorous and desirable, seen on the arms of actresses, politicians, the idle rich, and more.  It meant going to every event as someone’s party favor, and working non-stop at keeping himself just that fashionable.  Only the other victors understood that doing so was the best way he could protect himself, because Rumple had found out that second year that he really did draw in those who wanted to _break_ him, to put the uppity kid from District Twelve in his place and prove how much better and stronger than him they were.  He didn’t know if Blue encouraged that or his own attitude did, but he was stuck with the persona and this was the only way to keep himself out of trouble.  Or more trouble, anyway.

That tactic worked in the Capitol, but it destroyed his marriage to Milah.  Their fights became more and more frequent, often taking place for half the district to see because Milah wouldn’t know subtlety if the Capitol had painted it across the Justice Building in huge neon letters.  He tried to tell her, just once, in a quiet whisper out in their backyard, that he didn’t _want_ this and he hated every moment of it, but Milah’s temper was up, and she didn’t believe him.  He never tried to tell her again, instead letting the wounds fester inside as he grew more and more angry.

Then he took the butcher’s eldest boy to the 52nd Games (along with Rosalind Trevino, the most gentle twelve year old girl he had ever met), and Philip Prince came out alive.  Philip promptly credited his mentor with showing him out to read people and read the arena, and Sidney Glass started going on about how Gold really _does_ give “golden advice.”  Philip was older than Rumple was when he won, which meant that they were actually the same age, and despite the differences in their upbringing, there suddenly was someone who understood him.  Young enough to think he could make things better, Rumple promised himself that he wouldn’t let this good looking victor be caught unaware by what was to come, vowing to take care of Philip in ways he’d needed and never got.  He was high on victory, even more so than his battered tribute who needed three days to heal, giving interviews and realizing that next year, Twelve would have ready sponsors if their tributes looked even a little promising.  When they got home, even the hardliners in the district seem more accepting of him, seemed not to care if he was playing the Capitol’s game, so long as it let him bring one of their own home.

For two weeks, Rumple was happy.  His son was now two, precocious and smart.  Even Milah smiled at him from time to time, and the horrible thought occurred to him that maybe with Philip around, some of the interest in him would wane and Rumple could manage to repair his broken marriage.  He allowed himself to hope for the first time since he realized what walking out of that arena meant…and then President Blue showed up.

It started with Peacekeepers bursting into their home in the middle of the night, a wailing and terrified Bae screaming for his mother, and Rumple suddenly realized that his world was coming to an end.  Blue obviously didn’t want anyone to know that she was having this conversation with Rumple, because there was no overt presence of extra Peacekeepers, and no one outside Victor’s Village would notice them, anyway.  Calmly, Blue reminded Twelve’s senior victor that outlying districts were not supposed to do so well in the Games, speaking coldly while two of her Peacekeepers held Milah on her knees and two others held Rumple on the other side of the room.  He wasn’t stupid enough to struggle, thinking he could still talk his way out of this, but the coldness in the president’s eyes was terrifying.  It was worse than that falsely maternal smile she usually wore; now she meant business, and it was all Rumple could do to try not to shake.

Rumple tried to write it off as luck, tried to tell Blue that he was just fortunate, because Philip was eighteen and had been working with knives his entire life.  He wrestled, too, at school, and was probably the most well-suited kid in the entire district for the Games.  Much better prepared than Rumple had been.  But Blue clearly didn’t care.  She told Rumple calmly that he was warned that there was a price for defiance, and that apparently Rumple had not gotten the message the first time.

Three of the Peacekeepers raped Milah in front of him, one with a wicked looking knife that Rumple was pretty sure came right out of Philip’s arena.  Desperately, he begged them not to make his son watch this, because even if he couldn’t save Milah—and he _couldn’t_ , no matter how hard he fought, which he did in earnest even though it didn’t help—Bae was two and did not deserve to see this.  Shortly before the third Peacekeeper pulled the knife out, one of the others was finally kind enough to turn the crying child away, a small mercy that Rumple could barely stir himself to be grateful for.  He almost hoped Blue would kill him then, but he wasn’t a fool, and two years as a mentor had taught him a lot about injuries.  Even if Milah didn’t die that day, there was no way she would survive outside a Capitol hospital.  Bae needed one parent to live.  That terrible math, that horrifying logic, was the only thing he had to cling to, but it tasted like ashes in his mouth.

The Peacekeepers dropped Milah, mercifully unconscious, and the president turned to face him.  Rumple could barely see Blue through his tears.

“Please,” he whispered, almost numb with horror and shock.  The Peacekeepers were still holding him; otherwise, he might have collapsed already.  Milah was bleeding heavily on the carpet, and he could barely look away from her to try to meet Blue’s eyes.  In the end, he wound up staring at the floor.  “Please, I’ll do whatever you like.  Just save her.  _Please._ ”

Their marriage had soured, but Rumple had learned to love her, anyway.  Even when she didn’t understand him, she was his _wife_.  He was supposed to protect her, but the lesson Blue sought to teach was suddenly clear: Rumple could not protect anyone, even those he was closest to.

“No,” Blue replied coldly.  “She’ll die of a fever within a few days, I imagine.  Do you understand?”

“Please—” Rumple tried again hoarsely, only to find himself cut off by a blow to the side of the head.

“Argue with me, Mr. Gold, and you will find that your son catches the same sickness.  And wouldn’t that be a shame?”

That shocked him into silence, and Rumple’s wide eyes found his still-crying son.  The bastards were content to let Bae stare at his unconscious and bleeding mother as if a district child didn’t have feelings, and Rumple will _not_ let him down, too.  As a victor, he was all but untouchable—or at least hard to kill without much planning and a good excuse.  Besides, selling him brought in too much money, probably, which meant Blue wouldn’t want to destroy such a valuable commodity.  Those dark thoughts helped free Rumple from a bit of his lethargy, fury starting to edge its way through his wild grief and shock.

“I understand,” he whispered, purpose crystallizing in the back of his mind as much as his heart broke for Milah.  He didn’t hide the latter.  He kept the former buried deep. 

“Then, I trust that you will be well-behaved in the future, won’t you?  The perfect representative of your district for the Capitol,” Blue said with that damn maternal smile, and Rumple nodded brokenly.

The president was watching Bae now, not him.

“Tell me what you want and I will do it,” he replied desperately, knowing how easily children died in the districts, even if they didn’t have the president wanting their blood.

“Oh, I will,” was the easy response, and Rumple shivered.

He knew it would be bad, but he would do whatever it took to keep Bae safe.

* * *

 

Rumple waited until three weeks before Belle’s Victory Tour to tell her that story; he hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t wanted to remember those old pains, but in the end he realized that she needed to know.  Belle wasn’t just any victor: she was the Girl on Fire.  But it wasn’t like the story was a secret; by the time he and Philip returned to the Capitol for the 54th Games, it was obvious that every other victor already knew.  Philip had actually been the only one left in the dark; the others had all been discreetly informed by the Office of Victor Affairs.

The message was clear: _Victors are safe.  Your families are not._

“That’s terrible.”  Belle’s whisper startled him, but the hand that landed on his shoulder made Rumple jump.

He’d simply stared at the wall as he spoke, relating the story as emotionlessly as possible.  It had been almost twenty years, after all.  Losing Milah still burned in a distant way, but it wasn’t the all-consuming fury that he felt over the way his son had been stolen from him.   Yet why would Belle put a hand on his shoulder like that?   Her gentle touch felt so alien.  He wasn’t used to something like that.  Even other victors, his _friends_ , kept their distance from him.

Rumple Gold was the problem victor, after all.  He was too smart for his own good, and those closest to him always paid the price for that.

“It is what it is.”  He swallowed hard, eying the hand that was still on his shoulder.  Belle had always been too compassionate for her own good, though, and that was surely what this was.

“Rumple.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezed when he stayed stubbornly silent, and his always dry eyes finally flicked up to look at her face.  “Don’t give me your pity, Belle.  There are others far more deserving than I.”

“You’re not a bad man, you know.”  Her pretty face was creased with concern, and somehow that made Rumple feel worse.  “I even think you’re a good one.”

 He snorted.  “Hardly.”

“You’ve been dealing with this alone for all these years, haven’t you?”

“No.”  Rumple looked away, a hard lump forming in his throat.  “Not always.”

“Baelfire.”  Belle said the name like she was reciting it from memory, and no wonder; Bae had won seven years before her.  His son was four years older than the eighteen-year-old girl at his side, but Bae hadn’t been seen in District Twelve since the year of the 67th Games. 

Rumple just closed his eyes, feeling tears want to rise.  _I will not weep.  I don’t deserve that luxury, not after everything that has happened._

“You miss him, don’t you?” she asked gently, and Rumple just nodded, forcing himself to open his eyes.

“Of course I do.”  Anger made his voice harsh; time had not reconciled him to what had happened, and it never would.

“Then why did you let him go to the Capitol?”  Belle sounded confused, bless her innocent soul.  “Everyone talks like you got him some deal, some better life…but I can tell you don’t think so.”

Rumple snorted.  “No.  I didn’t _send_ him there, contrary to what everyone in this miserable district thinks.”

Belle gave him a hard look.  “It’s not their fault that they believe untruths because you won’t tell them differently.”

“Believing what they do is safer for them.”  After all, who would believe the truth?  No one in Twelve, certainly.  They all thought the worst of him, anyway, and Rumple didn’t really care if they did.  It was almost easier when they hated him, because then at least he didn’t have to deal with them looking at him with _hope_ , like he might somehow bring someone else home alive.

Belle winning had been an unexpected gift, and not one he’d ever regret.  Oh, he’d pay the price for it, Rumple knew, because a smartass victor from the outer districts wasn’t supposed to mentor _three_ victors inside twenty-one years.  Twelve had four victors between Quarter Quells, and Blue wasn’t the type to care that having four victors—three of which were living—was below the statistical average of nearly six per district.  Of course, the career districts had more, but most of the other districts had three.  No, she would blame him for this.  _Again._

“Tell me what happened?”  Belle’s blunt voice made him look at her again.  “After all, it can’t put me in more danger, and I think I need to know.”

“You do.”  Even if he hated saying it.  Rumple sighed.  “Some victors—usually those in districts with a surplus—have their contracts bought out by private individuals.  Then then move to the Capitol…and live where their ‘benefactor’ chooses.  They’re expected to be _available_ at all times.”

Rumple managed to say it without grimacing, and even if he didn’t go into details, he could see that Belle got the point.  She knew enough now of what was expected of victors, though the idea that someone could be required to live in the Capitol year round as a glorified sex slave clearly shocked her.

“But that’s—that’s—that’s hardly fair.”  She looked shocked, looked like her mind was having a hard time wrapping itself around the implications of everything he’d said.

“Fair walked out of your life the moment you volunteered for the arena, dear,” Rumple said as gently as he could.

But even back then, he could see a hard determination in Belle’s blue eyes, one that said she was not prepared to put up with this.  Not forever.  Not like _this_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Belle has to choose a talent, Killian worries for a friend in the next Reaping, and we visit Bae in the Capitol.


	18. Chapter 18

“Are you all right?” Babette’s voice was quiet, and she’d waited until they were in the backyard to ask her question, but Belle still jumped.

“Why—why would you ask?” Not gulping was hard.  Even this long after returning from the Capitol, lying didn’t come naturally.  She knew it was a skill that Rumple had, but she’d never really wanted the ability to lie to people.  The Victory Tour was coming up fast, however, and Belle knew that she’d have to learn fast.

“Because you’ve been different since you came back.”  Her friend coughed; Babette had never quite recovered from the sickness that she’d had before the 72nd Games, even though Belle now had money to buy better medicine than anyone else in the district.  “I know it can’t be easy, having killed people.  And I know that none of us can understand, but you’re not okay, are you?”

“I’m…I’m going to be okay.”  Belle tried to square her shoulders, but lying to her best friend was so hard.  Officially, Babette was now her family’s maid, since Babette would be nineteen next year, and would have to move out if she didn’t have a job.  She forced a smile.  “It just takes time to get over, you know?”

“Is that why you talk to Gold so much?”  Unlike her father, Babette didn’t sound upset by the time Belle spent with the senior victor, but it still made her tense.

“Yeah.”  She couldn’t explain how _dirty_ she still felt, or how Gold helped her feel less used and abused.  “He gets it.”

Babette looked away, embarrassed.  “I’ve always thought he was just an ass, but I never really thought about how hard it must be to deal with all that.”

“I think we all thought that.”  A genuine laugh bubbled up, and Belle found herself smiling a real smile.  “But he’s not what I thought he was.  Not at all.”

Belle wasn’t entirely sure what she thought of Rumple, now, other than the fact that she’d drawn ridiculously close to him over the past few months.  He was the only person she could really talk to, the one person with whom she felt _safe_.  Yes, he was caustic and angry, guarded and hurt, but she understood him, too.  She was slowly coaxing him out of the armored shell he had built for himself, and Belle could see the good man who the Capitol had beaten down one too many times shining out from beneath the pain.  They were stronger together, too, she knew.  She just didn’t know how to explain that to anyone else.

* * *

 

“I was, um, thinking.”  Emma looked nervous, and Bae could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen her like that.

_Hell, I’m pretty sure it’s only been twice, and the first time was when she asked me if I’d hate her if she bought my contract this year,_ he thought with an easy smile.  He’d met Emma when Cruella still owned his contract, but the crazy bitch had gotten bored with Bae quickly.  Of course, he’d been better off with Cruella than Zelena—which wasn’t saying much—and she’d given him plenty of time on his own.  Cruella had been mostly interested in the fashion statement made by owning a victor, and of course she’d picked him because he was new and hot.  Her rich husband had been prepared to indulge her, but Cruella didn’t have the attention span to keep her eyes on one victor for an entire year.

That had led Bae to the party where he’d met Emma, and they’d started seeing one another.  Discreetly, of course.  It wouldn’t do to let the Office of Victor Affairs know that Bae had actually started _liking_ a Capitolite; then they never would have let Emma buy his contract out.  It felt really weird to have a girl he actually wanted to see more or less own him, but Bae had always been able to roll with the punches.  He didn’t like their current situation, but it was a hell of a lot better than being sold to Zelena Zephyr again. 

The fact that Emma was her _very_ rich parents’ sole heiress didn’t hurt, either.  She had a lot more money to burn than Zelena did, and Bae was glad for that.  It meant she’d probably get the chance to buy him again when the current contract expired during next year’s Games.

“That’s always dangerous,” he said lightly, bumping her shoulder with his.

“Shut up.”  She scowled, but he could see that she wasn’t actually angry.

“So, you gonna share this thought with me, or are you gonna make me guess?”

Emma shot him a smug smile.  “Maybe I will make you guess.  I’ll just sit here, not telling you what I’m thinking, and it’ll drive you insane.”

“You could do that, but if you _really_ want to play the waiting game…” Bae trailed off with a grin, and Emma groaned.

“No, Mister-I-Waited-in-a-Cave-for-Careers-to-Find-Me, I’m not going to out-patience you.”  She rolled her eyes, but Bae noticed how she fidgeted.  Emma _was_ nervous.  “I was just thinking about something Regina said.”

“Regina says a lot of things.”

“About her parents.  Her mother, in particular.  I mean, Cora was a victor, and now—”  The beeping of Emma’s comm console cut her off.  “Damn.”

Emma picked up the handset and listened for a moment, her face growing ever paler as she did so.  Able to sense that something was wrong, Bae immediately reached for her hand, only to find Emma gripping his fingers like her life depended on it. 

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she whispered, hanging up.

“What’s up?  Is everything all right?”

“My mother’s in the hospital again.  She fell, and they don’t think…” Emma’s eyes found his, wide and terrified.  “Will you come with me?”

“Of course I will.”

Bae had only met Madam Swan a few times, but the old woman had seemed kind enough, particularly for a Capitolite.  She’d never treated him like he was property, for one, and that counted for an awful lot in Bae’s book.  He knew that Emma was her mother’s world, too, so even if he had hated Madam Swan, he would have gone to the hospital with Emma.  _Her father died two years ago.  I know her parents are old, even by Capitol standards, but everyone thought her mother would last longer than this._

But there wasn’t time for more thoughts; Bae knew the part he was expected to play, so he called up the car and got things in motion.  Besides, Emma looked too worried to think straight, and he _wanted_ to take care of her.

* * *

 

“This will be my last Reaping.”  Aurora clasped her hands in front of herself, and he could tell she was trying not to fidget.   They were less than a week out from the Victory Tour, which meant there were only five months to go until her last Games.

“We still have to be careful, love,” Killian said softly.  Not that they weren’t; they’d headed out into the field behind Four’s Training Academy to talk, because they all knew there were no bugs there.  Theoretically, he was helping her with her spear technique.  They’d have to put some work in on that front before going inside, lest anyone in Four figure out the lie.  He was pretty sure that Ariel knew, but Ariel was like a sister to him, and she was the only one Killian trusted not to blab.

Aurora rolled her eyes, as brash and brave as ever.  “Aren’t we always?”

“If anyone finds out about you and me, you’re _going_ to be Reaped.  There’s no getting around that,” he snapped, goaded by his worry into anger.  Aurora thought she understood, but she didn’t.  She _couldn’t._ But Killian had spent six years as a Victor, and four of them as Panem’s Bloody Playboy.  He knew what was at risk.  “Don’t forget, you might not be the Academy’s first choice to go in, but if you get Reaped, no one’s volunteering for you.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” Killian wanted to shake her, but damn this infernal girl, he loved her and had loved her for too long.  His brother had been all he’d had, before Liam had died in the Games, but he’d met Aurora when he was thirteen and she was eleven, and something between them had just _clicked._

“I’m not a child, Killian.  I’m eighteen.”  Aurora put a hand on his arm, squeezing gently.  “I know the risks.  I’m here, aren’t I?  And we’ve always been careful.  Why are you suddenly so worried?”

He couldn’t tell her that he was certain that all victors were being watched more carefully than ever.  _Everyone_ on the inside knew that Gold was Blue’s favorite problem child, and that the president had never meant for Twelve to bring home another victor—let alone one who reached out to other tributes in kindness.  Competition the Capitol could handle; and aggression, even sadism, was par for the course.  But compassion was too much.  He couldn’t blame Bae’s father for having brought home Belle French, of course.  No victor ever blamed the lucky bastard who got to bring someone home, but the additional scrutiny was hardly welcome.  Not for any of them.

“It’s just a feeling.”  He felt bad for lying, but he couldn’t tell her.  Even out here.  Even if Aurora knew that his ‘flings’ in the Capitol meant nothing to him, that he was only upholding his so-called public image, he couldn’t tell her the way things really were.  No one but victors knew the truth, and Killian _prayed_ that he would never have the chance to explain.

* * *

 

Stefan King was on his way out.  Regina could _smell_ it.  He had one last chance, she knew, to craft a Games that pleased both the audience and the president, or he was going to be shown the door in a very private but dramatic manner.  He’d managed the former but not the later with Belle French, this “Girl on Fire” that the Capitol was still talking about, and Blue was infuriated in her quiet and overly maternal manner.  King would bear the brunt of her displeasure, though, which didn’t leave Regina overly sad.

“You have an opportunity here, darling.”  Her mother’s voice interrupted her thoughts, making Regina scowl.

“I _am_ aware of that, Mother.”

“Your father said that King gave you responsibility for organizing the Victory Tour.  That’s an enormous promotion.”  But Regina heard what Cora didn’t say, because there were bugs everywhere, was that there could be an even greater promotion in store if King went down.

Regina gave her mother her widest false smile.  “I’m so honored by his trust.”

Cora chuckled.  “Be sure to make the most of it, dear.  And do give my best to Rumple Gold when you speak to him.  I _do_ miss him so.”

“Sure.”  Regina tried not to scowl, but she knew she’d failed.  Listening to Cora talk about her former lover was just _odd_ , particularly since she was well aware of the fact that her mother still paid for Twelve’s senior victor from time to time.  Daddy turned a blind eye, but Regina found it unsettling. 

_Had things been different, I might have been the child of two victors instead of a Capitolite,_ she thought with an internal shudder.  She could have grown up in one of the districts, probably Nine, scraping and struggling for a living like her mother had when she was young.  She’d have been Cora’s daughter, of course, but she wouldn’t have the education she did, the nice life she led, or the luxuries she was used to.  _And I wouldn’t be able to do a damned thing about this unfair world, either._ Regina let her smile turn grim as her mother looked away.  One never knew which side Cora was on, but Regina knew where _she_ stood.

So, yes, she would pass her mother’s regards on to Gold.  She would also give him information, quietly and carefully, about where things stood in the Capitol.  And she would also tell him about what she had learned about District Thirteen.

* * *

 

“You have to choose a talent.”  Rumple crossed his arms, and Belle tried not to sigh.

He was right, of course.  They were only a month out from the Victory Tour.  Archie had just left Twelve, having fitted her for outfit after outfit, determined to make Belle beautiful and glamorous for the Tour.  She was nervous, though, and kept trying to convince herself that the Victory Tour was further away than it was.  The Capitol might have made everyone in the districts believe that the Tour was a celebration for the newest victor, but Belle didn’t have to ask what would happen when she reached the Capitol.  She already knew she’d be sold to _someone._

“I can’t very well use reading.”  She gestured helplessly.  “Any ideas?”

He gave her a pointed look.  “I’ve given you about a hundred already.”

“None of them are me!”

“It’s not _supposed_ to be you.”  Rumple leaned forward, and for a moment, she thought he might actually take her hand, or touch her, but Belle was left disappointed when he did not.  “Don’t give them any more of yourself than you have to.  They’ll take everything else, anyway.”

“You said you picked throwing knives.  _You_ do that.  I’ve seen the gouges on the inside of your pantry door.”  Belle leaned back, eying him and waiting for Rumple to refute that.

He just shrugged.  “It’s the best way I can think of to work out the anger.  Since it’s my ‘talent’, they let me have throwing knives openly.  But it’s not exactly a hobby that I would have chosen on my own.”

“So, you’re saying to pick something I don’t care about.”

“Exactly.”  Rumple met her eyes levelly, and Belle could see the years of loss and pain stacking up.  They made him sad, but they also made him bitter.  _How do I avoid ending up like him?  He’s a good man, underneath it all, but I’ve only scratched the surface on how wounded he is._

“Then geese.”  Belle shrugged.  “I’ll raise geese.”

_“What?”_

“You said you almost went with it.  I’ll use it.”  The shocked look on his face was worth it, and Belle found herself grinning.  “They can’t argue with that, can they?  And I probably should pick something, um, not related to fire.  Unless you think I should?”

“No, stay away from fire.  Stay away from anything threatening, for that matter.”  Rumple looked thoughtful.  “Do you really have any interest in geese?”

“Not really.  But I can find a book on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Emma and Baelfire visit her mother, Belle faces the future as bravely as she can, and a secret comes out that can change everything.


	19. Chapter 19

Visiting the hospital with Emma was just _weird_.  First off, Capitol medical technology had never really been nice to Bae; he’d been patched up at Victor Affairs a number of times after particularly rough clients—or in a hospital himself, once, when Zelena was really evil.  So, being surrounded by the stuff gave him the creeps, and the lack of color only made things worse.  _Everything_ in the Capitol was a nausea-inducing rainbow of color, except the hospitals.  The hospitals were stark white, probably so that people thought they were clean and sterile.  But to Bae, they just looked lifeless and ghostly, and seeing Emma’s mother lying pale in a bed didn’t help matters at all.

He wasn’t there to enjoy himself, though.  He was there for Emma, who looked fragile and lost while her mother insisted the nurses take away the intrusive machines and leave her be.

“I’m dying, anyway,” Rose Red Swan whispered.  “Leave me alone with my daughter.”

“Can Bae stay?” Emma whispered, squeezing his hand so tightly that Bae could barely feel his fingers.  “I love him, Mama.”

That seemed to take Rose Red by surprise; her eyes grew almost comically wide.  She was an odd-looking woman already, with red makeup tattooed around her eyes and too-red lips, even in her currently pale face.  She almost always wore red wigs, Bae knew, but now he was shocked to see that her hair was an ugly slate gray.  He’d met her a handful of times, and had always thought her name was silly, even for a Capitolite, but now there was nothing silly about her.

“I suppose…I shouldn’t be surprised.”  The old woman’s voice was a rasp, now, not the high-pitched bell imitation she usually managed, the one that grated endlessly on Bae’s ‘hick’ nerves from Twelve.  “He can stay.”

“Thank you, Mama.”  Emma’s whisper was so broken that Bae ruthlessly suppressed his instinctive disappointment; the less time he spent with Rose Red Swan the better.  But he’d stay for Emma’s sake.

_She loves me._   They’d never quite said the words, not like this, and part of Bae was upset that Emma had told her mother before she’d told him.  But he understood why Emma had been hesitant.  She was a Capitolite, and he was the victor she’d paid for.  He’d never dared even _think_ the words to himself, as much as he liked Emma, because Bae would always be furious that he could be bought and sold like he was some slave.  The fact that Emma actually gave a damn about him and his opinions—not to mention gave him the opportunity to say _no_ —tempered his anger quite a bit, but it didn’t erase the facts.

But she _loved_ him.

“You may not thank me when I’m through,” Rose Red whispered, looking wan and sad.

Emma’s hand tightened on his again, and Bae grimaced despite himself.  Emma didn’t even notice.  “Mama?”

“I’m not…I’m not your mother, sweeting.  Not truly.”  A ragged cough.  “We adopted you as a babe, out of the districts.”

“Out of the _what?_ ”  Emma shot out of her chair, standing so fast that she jerked Bae’s arm.  It was her volume, however, that worried Bae.

“Emma!  Be _quiet_ ,” he hissed as Rose Red went into another coughing fit.  His girlfriend/contract holder turned to glare at him, but he met her eyes squarely.  “This is not exactly something you want people to _overhear_.”

“Oh.”  She blinked hard.  “Right.”  Slowly, Emma lowered herself back into her chair, her back ramrod straight and her eyes wide as she looked at her mother.  Or not her mother, as the case proved to be.  “So, what exactly happened?”

“Your birth mother was a victor.  Something happened.”  Rose Red tried to shrug, but her movements were choppy.  “We never asked what.  We were too happy to have you.”

Emma took a shuddering breath, and Bae had never seen her so lost.  She looked at him, her eyes still wide and desperate, clearly not knowing what to say.  So, he just squeezed her hand and cleared his throat.  Rose Red hated being interrupted by him—like a lot of Capitolites, she thought anyone from the dirty districts was beneath her, and that he should be honored that she treated him well—but Bae didn’t give a damn.

“Do you know who?”  He could run through a list of female victors in his mind easily enough, and throwing anyone younger than, say, seventeen years older than Emma off the list was easy enough.  That didn’t leave too many to choose from.  _Merida won the 51 Games, so it probably isn’t her.  That leaves Ingrid, Amara, Cora—who it definitely isn’t—Maleficent, Jack, Silvermist, Ursula, Granny, and Bo Peep.  Anyone older is dead, or was probably too old by the time Emma would have been conceived._

But why take a _victor’s_ child?

Rose Red looked annoyed to be answering him.  “We never asked.”

“Of course you didn’t.”  The words were muttered, but it still got him a dirty look from Emma’s moth— _adopted_ mother.  The thought was so alien that Bae didn’t know what to do with it.

_Emma’s like me.  She’s not_ really _a Capitolite,_ he realized with a sort of devastated awe.  _She’s a victor’s kid, and she was stolen from her parents.  Just a_ lot _earlier than I was._   That thought made him squeeze her hand, and after a moment, Emma shot him a grateful look.

“Do you even know what district I’m from?” she whispered after a moment, looking like she didn’t know how to accept this.  Any of this.

“One of the Inner Districts, of course.”  Rose Red sniffed, but it turned into another gagging cough.  “We wouldn’t want…”  Suddenly, she trailed off, looking at Baelfire.

His smile was crooked.  “Oh, you can go ahead and say it.  You wouldn’t want one of the hicks from the outer districts.  It’s not the worst I’ve ever heard.”

“Bae.”  Emma gave him a look, but he could tell she wasn’t really angry, so he just squeezed her hand again.  But his mind was racing.

‘Inner Districts’ was Capitol for career tributes.  That cut down the possibilities for Emma’s parentage in a huge way, tossing out Maleficent, Ursula, Silvermist, and Nimue—though Nimue was probably too old, anyway.  Amara was probably out, too, even though she was from Three; the Capitolites didn’t tend to worship the smart kids, which Bae thought was pretty short-sighted of them.  So, that left Ingrid, Jack, Jasmine, and Merida.  Merida might be too young, having won the year after his dad had, but the others were possibilities.  Anyone who’d won before the 25th Games was probably too old; childbearing after age 30 in the districts just wasn’t a good idea.

So, he was down to three, maybe four people.  Possibly five if Rose Red didn’t think that District Three was too dirty.  Either way, it was a start.

* * *

 

Belle joked about teaching her geese to attack unwanted visitors, but inside, she was a mess of butterflies.  The Victory Tour was only a month away, and she was starting to realize that there was going to be more to it than district tours, meeting other victors, and making pretty speeches.  She was just now starting to feel normal again, starting to feel like _herself_ and able to banish the memories of Farquaad’s touch, but she had to face the fact that she was going to be sold again. 

Rumple had said that it happened to all of them, and Belle had never been the type to hide away in fear.  She would face what was coming as bravely as she could, and Belle would do whatever she had to do to protect her family.  _“I’ll teach you what you need to know,”_ Rumple had promised.  _“I can’t say it will be easy, or that you’ll ever like it, but it will keep your family safe.”_ Belle hadn’t wanted to talk about it before now, hadn’t wanted to feel so raw and so vulnerable, so sick and so _used_.  But now she had to, so she marched next door to Rumple’s house before she could stop herself.

It wasn’t visiting was a hardship, anyway.  She visited him every day, ostensibly to prepare for the Victory Tour, but mostly just so she could talk to the one man who understood everything she’d gone through—and would go through in the future.  Today, however, she needed more than understanding.  She needed _knowledge_.  So, Belle didn’t waste much time after they’d settled in on the couch to talk.  The house was probably bugged to high heaven, but the Capitol could hardly begrudge her learning how to do what they wanted her to, could they?

 “Am I going to get sold again on the Victory Tour?”  Belle was pleased by how steady her voice was when she asked the question; it only shook a little on the end, and she managed not to bite her lip for long.

Rumple turned to look at her with dark and sad eyes.  “Undoubtedly.”

“Oh.”  Belle sucked in a shuddering breath.  A small part of her had hoped he’d say no, or that it would at least wait until the 72nd Games. 

“There won’t be much time on the Tour, but someone will purchase your ‘time’ after the gala at the Presidential Mansion.”  He grimaced slightly.  “It’s a rather sickening tradition, but it’s the way things are _done_ in the Capitol.”  The last phrase was said in a high-pitched mockery of the Capitol’s accent, and Belle had to giggle despite the seriousness of the situation.

“You do the accent pretty well.”  Or he mocked it pretty well, but Belle was pretty sure he knew what she meant.

Rumple grinned nastily, rolling the next words off of his tongue.  “Years of practice, dearie.”

“I’ll have that eventually, too, won’t I?”  Belle refused to cry, though, so she squared her shoulders as best she could and faced facts.  “It’s not like Twelve has other victors to turn to, yeah?”

“Yeah.”  His face clouded over, and Belle could tell Rumple was thinking of his son.  “There is that.”

“So…what do I do?”  Belle tried not to let her nervousness show, but she was sure he saw it.  “I mean, I get the impression that most Capitolites are going to, um, expect me to know stuff about sex.  Which I don’t.”

Her face was almost on fire with embarrassment; this kind of thing just wasn’t _talked_ about in Twelve.  Particularly with non-family members.  But Belle couldn’t exactly go to her father about this, now, could she?

“No, you don’t.”  He didn’t need to reference her experience with Minister Farquaad; they were both thinking of it.  Rumple took a deep breath.  “Once we’re back in the Capitol, there are a few younger victors who can help you.  David and Ruby both come to mind—”

“For what?” Belle broke in before she could stop herself.  David, or “Charming” as the Capitol had taken to calling him for his suave touch with the ladies—which Belle now could identify for what it was—had won two years ago, and Ruby had won just the year before her.  They were from Ten and One, though, and Belle wasn’t sure why they’d help _her_.

“They’re recent victors.”  His eyes flicked around the room, like Rumple was trying to figure out how to explain this to her.  “They know how things are, and they’ll be able to give you some advice and technique.”

Belle blinked.  “But…but they’re from other districts.”

Nevermind the rest of what Rumple had said; people from other districts just didn’t talk to one another.  It didn’t _work_ like that.  Belle could work on swallowing the idea of people teaching her ‘technique’ some other time.

“We’re all victors.”  He shrugged.  “It works a bit differently for us.”

* * *

 

“Something doesn’t make sense.”  Bae scowled after they’d gotten home.  Rose Red was sedated and sleeping, which meant hanging out at the hospital hadn’t been any use.  “What the hell would be the point of taking a victor’s child?  Your neighbors _love_ the idea of being teased with ‘legacy tributes’, which is why we _all_ wind up getting reaped.”

Emma nodded slowly, her hazel eyes thoughtful.  “And you’re the only one who made it out.”

“Yeah, ‘cause my Pop taught me how to cheat.”  He’d not have spoken so freely if they hadn’t been on the balcony, but Bae knew that there weren’t any bugs here.  Or at least there probably weren’t.  Emma was an up-and-coming Capitolite, but she wasn’t important enough to keep an eye on all day, every day—even for a paranoid sicko like their lovely president.

“You’re saying that me being given up doesn’t make any sense.”  Emma scuffed her toe on the finely-finished floor of the balcony, staring at the mosaic with eyes that Bae was sure didn’t see any of the swans decorating it.

“Pretty much, yeah.  Victor’s kids are a hot commodity.”

“Don’t say that.”  Emma’s head snapped up to glare at him.  “You’re not a _commodity._ ”

Bae shrugged.  “Just callin’ it like I see it.  You know how things are.”

“You know I—that I never viewed you like that, right?  I know that I…that I bought your contract, but I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t all right with you.”  Suddenly, Emma looked very rattled, and Bae reached out to take her hand, giving her a reassuring smile.

“Yeah, I know.  Though I think you’re the only one in this city who doesn’t feel like that.”  His smile turned crooked, but now was _not_ the time to think of his time with Zelena or any of the other horrible clients he’d had.  Emma was important to him, more than almost anything, and her entire world had just been rocked to its very foundations.

“This is crazy,” she whispered after a long moment.  “What the hell am I supposed to do with this knowledge?”

“Nothing.”  Emma gave him a strange look, but he just shrugged again.  “What are you going to do, shout it from the rooftops?  Obviously, the President and her cronies already know—no one else could have set that up, or would have had reasons to.  So, they know about your birth, but they don’t know _you_ know.  So keep it like that.”

Emma blinked.  “Why would that matter?”

“Well, it all depends on why they took you away, right?”

Their eyes met, and Bae could see that Emma understood.  They were at a dangerous juncture, where one wrong move could destroy Emma’s life—and take Bae down with her.  They’d carved out a bit of happiness for themselves against all odds, and now their relationship was even _more_ taboo.  Emma was an up-and-coming Talent Coordinator in the Capitol, but she was technically district born and bred.  And from a career district, too.  He was from Twelve, but the fact they were both from the districts wouldn’t ever have helped them, even if things were different.  Associations beyond the friendships victors had were absolutely forbidden, and love between people from two districts was sacrilege. 

It had been bad enough that Emma, his client, actually had feelings for Bae that he reciprocated.  This was far more dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back from the dead! Sorry for the long delay between chapters; I’m working on an MFA in Writing, and it’s taking up a lot more time than I anticipated.
> 
> Up Next: Belle’s Victory Tour.


End file.
